i 


THE 


THE 


A  POEM. 


BY  J.  K.  PAULDING. 


PHILADELPHIA: 

PUBLISHED  BY  M.  THOMAS,  52,  CHESNUT  ST. 
J.  MAXWELL,  PRINTER. 
1818. 


DISTRICT  OF  PENNSYLVANIA,  to  wit; 

BE  IT  REMEMBERED,  that  on  the  ninth  day  of  October,  in  the  forty* 
second  jear  of  the  independence  of  the  United  States  of  America,  A.  D.  1818, 
J.  K.  PAULDING,  of  the  said  district,  hath  deposited  in  this  office  the  title  of  a 
book,  the  right  whereof  he  claims  as  author,  in  the  words  following,  to  wit: 
The  Backwoodsman*  A  Poem.  By  J.  K.  Paulding. 

In  conformity  to  the  act  of  congress  of  the  United  States,  entitled, 66  An  act 
for  the  encouragement  of  learning,  by  securing  the  copies  of  maps,  charts,  and 
books  to  the  authors  and  proprietors  of  such  copies  during  the  times  therein  men- 
tioned." And  also  to  the  act,  entitled,  to  An  act  supplementary  to  an  act  enti- 
tled u  An  act  for  the  encouragement  of  learning,  by  securing  the  copies  of  maps, 
charts,  and  books,  to  the  authors  and  proprietors  of  such  copies  during  the  times 
therein  mentioned,  and  extending  the  benefits  thereof  to  the  arts  of  designing, 
engraving,  and  etching  historical  and  other  prints." 

DAVID  CALDWELL, 

Clerk  of  the  District  of  Pennsylvania* 


THE 


A  POEM. 


TO  THE  READER. 


That  the  author  may  not  be  charged  with  having 
failed  in  what  he  did  not  attempt,  it  may  be  as  well, 
perhaps,  to  state  the  extent  of  the  design  of  the  following 
poem.  His  object  was  to  indicate  to  the  youthful  writers 
of  his  native  country,  the  rich  poetic  resources  with  which 
it  abounds,  as  well  as  to  call  their  attention  home,  for  the 
means  of  attaining  to  novelty  of  subject,  if  not  to  origina- 
lity in  style  or  sentiment.  The  story  was  merely  assumed 
as  affording  an  easy  and  natural  way  of  introducing  a 
greater  variety  of  scenery,  as  well  as  more  diversity  of 
character;  and  whether  the  writer  shall  ever  attempt  to 
complete  his  original  intention  in  the  construction  of  a 
regular  plan,  will  principally  depend  on  the  reception 
given  to  this  experiment  Some  reasons  of  no  consequence 
to  the  public,  induce  him  to  state  that  the  present  work 
was  begun  more  than  five  years  ago,  so  far  as  the  inten- 
tion, and  the  preparation  of  some  scanty  materials,  may 
be  said  to  constitute  a  beginning.  In  three  or  four  in- 
stances, some  descriptions  of  natural  scenery  have  been 
borrowed  from  former  publications  of  the  author,  as  being 
more  properly  adapted  to  a  work  of  this  nature. 

Washington,  July,  1818. 


THE 


BOOK  FIRST. 


b2 


THE  BACKWOODSMAN, 


BOOK  I. 


MY  humble  theme  is  of  a  hardy  swain, 
The  lowliest  of  the  lowly  rural  train, 
Who  left  his  native  fields  afar  to  roam, 
In  western  wilds,  in  search  of  happier  home. 
Simple  the  tale  I  venture  to  rehearse, 
For  humble  is  the  Muse,  and  weak  her  verse; 
She  hazards  not,  to  sing  in  lofty  lays, 
Of  steel-clad  knights,  renown'd  in  other  days, 
For  glorious  feats  that,  in  this  dastard  time, 
Would  on  the  gallows  make  them  swing  sublime; 
Or  tell  of  stately  dames  of  royal  birth, 
That  scorn'd  communion  with  dull  things  of  earth, 
With  fairies  leagu'd,  and  d  warfs  of  goblin  race, 
Of  uncouth  limbs,  and  most  unseemly  face, 


8 


THE  BACKWOODSMAN. 


Tremendous  wights!  that  erst  in  nursery -keep 
Were  used  to  scare  the  froward  babe  to  sleep. 

Neglected  Muse!  of  this  our  western  clime, 
How  long  in  servile,  imitative  rhyme, 
Wilt  thou  thy  stifled  energies  impart, 
And  miss  the  path  that  leads  to  every  heart? 
How  long  repress  the  brave  decisive  flight, 
Warm'd  by  thy  native  fires,  led  by  thy  native  light? 
Thrice  happy  he  who  first  shall  strike  the  lyre, 
With  homebred  feeling,  and  with  homebred  fire; 
He  need  not  envy  any  favoured  bard, 
Who  Fame's  bright  meed,  and  Fortune's  smiles  reward; 
Secure,  that  wheresoe'er  this  empire  rolls, 
Or  east,  or  west,  or  tow'rd  the  firm  fixed  poles, 
While  Europe's  ancient  honours  fade  away, 
And  sink  the  glories  of  her  better  day, 
When,  like  degenerate  Greece,  her  former  fame 
Shall  stand  contrasted  with  her  present  shame, 
And  all  the  splendours  of  her  bright  career 
Shall  die  away,  to  be  relighted  here, 
A  race  of  myriads  will  the  tale  rehearse, 
And  love  the  author  of  the  happy  verse. 


THE  BACKWOODSMAN. 

Come  then,  neglected  Muse!  and  try  with  me 
The  untrack'd  path — 'tis  death  or  victory; 
Let  Chance  or  Fate  decide,  or  critics  will, 
No  fame  I  lose— I  am  but  nothing  still. 

From  Hudson — oft,  and  well  remember'd  name! 
Led  by  the  star  of  Hope,  our  hero  came; 
Here  was  he  born,  and  here  perchance  had  died, 
But  Fate  ordain'd  he  other  scenes  should  bide; 
For  Basil,  like  true  Yankee  lad,  a  wife 
Took  to  himself  ere  settled  half  in  life, 
And  soon  began,  in  sober  truth  to  prove, 
The  cares  that  often  break  the  heart  of  love. 
For,  well-a-day!  the  offspring's  sweetest  smile, 
And  wife's  caress,  may  fail  to  sweeten  toil; 
Nor  can  the  gentlest  nature  always  stem 
The  thought,  that  all  these  cares  are  brav'd  for  them. 
Each  morn  we  saw  him,  ere  the  rising  sun, 
And  saw  him,  when  his  golden  course  was  run, 
Toiling,  through  all  the  livelong  tedious  day, 
To  chase  the  scarecrow  Poverty  away; 
And  when  the  sacred  day  of  rest  came  round, 
Nor  rest,  nor  village  church  by  him  was  found; 


10  THE  BACKWOODSMAN. 

Along  ti;e  river's  bank  still  forc'd  to  roam, 
To  catch  a  meal  for  wife  and  babes  at  home. 
Thus  all  his  days  in  one  long  toil  were  past, 
And  each  new  day  seem'd  heavier  than  the  last, 
While  the  keen  thought  that  his  hard  sinewy  hand 
Was  blister'd,  labouring  on  another's  land; 
That  the  rich  products  which  he  toil'd  to  rear, 
To  others'  boards  gave  plenty  through  the  year, 
While  he  and  his,  at  home,  but  half  supplied, 
Shar'd  all  the  ills  that  poverty  betide, 
To  many  an  hour  of  bitterness  gave  birth, 
And  smote  his  mounting  spirit  to  the  earth. 

0!  Independence!  man's  bright  mental  sun, 
With  blood  and  tears  by  our  brave  country  won, 
Parent  of  all,  high  mettled  man  adorns, 
The  nerve  of  steel,  the  soul  that  meanness  scorns, 
The  mounting  wind  that  spurns  the  tyrant's  sway, 
The  eagle  eye  that  mocks  the  God  of  day, 
Turns  on  the  lordly  upstart  scorn  for  scorn, 
And  drops  its  lid  to  none  of  woman  born! 
With  blood,  and  tears,  and  hardships  thou  wert  bought, 
Yet  rich  the  blessings  thy  bright  sway  has  wrought; 


THE  BACKWOODSMAN.  1 

Hence  comes  it  that  a  gallant  spirit  reigns 

Unknown  among  old  Europe's  hapless  swains, 

Who  slaves  to  some  proud  lord,  himself  a  slave, 

From  sire  to  son  from  cradle  to  the  grave, 

From  race  to  race,  more  dull  and  servile  grow, 

Until  at  last  thej  nothing  feel  or  know. 

Hence  comes  it,  that  our  meanest  farmer's  boy 

Aspires  to  taste  the  proud  and  manly  joy 

That  springs  from  holding  in  his  own  dear  right 

The  land  he  plows,  the  home  he  seeks  at  night; 

And  hence  it  comes,  he  leaves  his  friends  and  home, 

Mid  distant  wilds  and  dangers  drear  to  roam, 

To  seek  a  competence,  or  find  a  grave, 

Rather  than  live  a  hireling  or  a  slave. 

As  the  bright  waving  harvest  field  he  sees, 

Like  sunny  ocean  rippling  in  the  breeze, 

And  hears  the  lowing  herd,  the  lambkins'  bleat, 

Fall  on  his  ear  in  mingled  concert  sweet, 

His  heart  sits  lightly  on  its  rustic  throne, 

The  fields,  the  herds,  the  flocks  are  all  his  own. 

But  Basil  tasted  not  this  sober  bliss, 
A  diff'rent  and  a  sterner  lot  was  his; 


i2  THE  BACKWOODSMAN. 

Years  pass'd  away,  and  every  year  that  past 
Brought  cares  and  toils  still  heavier  than  the  last; 
For  still,  each  passing  year,  his  fruitful  wife 
Brought  a  new  burthen  struggling  into  life, 
Till,  sooth  to  say,  his  house  became  too  small, 
Within  its  narrow  walls  to  hold  them  all, 
And  all  the  struggles  of  our  hardy  swain 
Could  scarcely  keep  from  want  the  lusty  train. 
At  last,  one  winter  came,— relentless  time!— 
Fear'd  by  the  wretched  in  this  pinching  clime, 
Where  driving  sleets  and  piercing  whistling  wind 
Through  every  cranny  a  rude  entrance  find, 
Chilling  the  cottage  hearth,  whose  stinted  blaze 
Half  warms  the  urchin  that  around  it  plays. 
The  trying  season  came,  and,  sad  to  tell, 
Rheumatic  agonies  on  Basil  fell, 
And  with  a  rude,  unsparing,  withering  hand 
Cast  him  a  wreck  on  Life's  hard  frozen  strand. 
No  more  his  vigorous  arm  can  strike  the  blow 
That  lays  the  monarch  of  the  woodland  low; 
No  more,  alas!  no  more  his  daily  toils 
Feed  his  poor  babes,  and  wake  their  grateful  smiles 


THE  BACKWOODSMAN. 

For  when  the  poor  man  sickens,  all  is  gone, 
Health,  food,  and  all  his  comforts — every  one; 
The  hand  that  fed  the  little  whitehair'd  race, 
Lies  motionless,  in  one  sad  resting  place, 
And  keen  varieties  of  wo  combined 
Prey  on  his  flesh,  and  lacerate  his  mind. 
But  when  the  rich  one  suffers — happy  wealth! 
He  feels  no  want,  but  the  one  want  of  health; 
And  all  those  precious  comforts  that  impart 
Such  soothings  to  the  sad  and  sinking  heart, 
Still  in  his  cup  with  plenteous  current  flow 
And  half  create  oblivion  of  his  wo; 
No  anxious  cares  molest  his  weakened  mind 
For  starving  wife  and  children  left  behind, 
Who,  when  the  sire  that  fed  them  shall  be  dead, 
W7ill  pine  in  anguish  for  their  daily  bread, 
And  meet  no  succour,  save  from  that  good  Hand 
W  hich  fed  the  prophet  in  a  desert  land. 

Were  I  to  tell  what  Basil  suffered  now, 
What  agonizing  drops  rolPd  down  his  brow, 
As  sad  he  lay  upon  his  stinted  bed, 
Fearing  to  die,  yet  wishing  he  were  dead; 


14  THE  BACKWOODSMAN. 

How  through  that  endless  winter,  Want  and  Pain, 
Like  rival  fiends,  tugg'd  at  his  heart  and  brain; 
How  when  his  wife  to  distant  neighbour's  home, 
For  work  or  charity  each  day  would  roam; 
Alone  he  lay,  all  desolate  the  while, 
Sooth'd  by  no  kind  caress,  or  offspring's  smile; 
While  other  sounds  there  never  met  his  ear, 
But  moans  for  food,  that  smote  his  heart  to  hear, 
However  sad  the  story,  or  how  true, 
The  tale,  alas!  were  neither  strange  nor  new; 
For  even  in  this — man's  chosen  resting  place, — 
This  nestling  corner  of  the  human  race; — 
This  new  Medina  of  the  glowing  West— 
Where  want  finds  plenty,  and  the  exile  rest, 
Such  scenes  in  real  life,  we  sometimes  see, 
That  blunt  the  keener  edge  of  sympathy, 
And  teach,  that  rich  and  poor,  the  wise  and  fool, 
Take  lessons,  soon  or  late,  in  Misery's  school. 

But  time,  as  wise  ones  say,  can  all  things  cure, 
Or  what's  as  well,  can  teach  us  to  endure; 
For  ever  tasting,  our  enjoyment  cloys — 
For  ever  suffering,  half  our  pain  destroys; 


THE  BACKWOODSMAN.  15 

The  prosperous,  fear  to  lose  what  they  possess, 
The  poor  man,  hopes  some  future  hour  will  bless; 
The  happy,  live  in  constant  fear  to  die, 
The  wretched,  hope  for  immortality; 
Fear  to  the  one,  paints  danger  from  afar, 
Hope,  is  the  other's  bright  and  blessed  star. 
Now  laughing  Spring  came  on,  and  birds,  in  pairs, 
Chirp'd  in  the  lively  woods,  while  balmy  airs 
And  warming  beams,  no  more  with  frosts  at  strife, 
Wak'd  from  its  trance  the  genial  tide  of  life, 
That  as  it  flow'd  through  Nature's  swelling  veins, 
Freed  every  pulse  from  Winter's  icy  chains, 
Tinted  her  mantling  cheek  with  rosy  hue, 
And  call'd  her  vernal  beauties  all  to  view; 
The  swelling  buds  forth  from  their  coverts  sprung, 
And  push'd  away  the  wither'd  leaves  that  hung 
Whispering  through  many  a  shivering  wint'ry  blast, 
To  fall  in  the  first  breath  of  Spring  at  last. 
Like  dead  men,  in  their  graves  forgot,  they  lie, 
Unmark'd  by  all,  save  some  lone  musing  eye 
That  marvels  much,  and  idly,  on  its  way, 
Men,  with  such  cause  to  weep,  should  be  so  gay. 


16  THE  BACKWOODSMAN. 

Who  can  resist  the  coaxing  voice  of  Spring, 
When  flowers  put  forth  and  sprightly  songsters  sing? 
He  is  no  honest  son  of  mother  Earth, 
And  shames  the  holy  dame  that  gave  him  birth; 
We  are  her  children,  and  when  forth  she  hies, 
Dress'd  in  her  wedding  suit  of  varied  dyes, 
Beshrew  the  churl  that  does  not  feel  her  charms3 
And  love  to  nestle  in  her  blooming  arms; 
He  has  no  heart,  or  such  a  heart  as  I 
Would  not  possess  for  all  beneath  the  sky: 
For  thus  to  sit  upon  the  clover'd  brow 
Of  some  full  bosom'd  hill  as  I  do  now, 
And  see  the  river,  wind  its  happy  way,  „ 
Round  jutting  points,  with  Spring's  blest  verdure  gay, 
Bearing  upon  its  broad  expansive  brim 
A  flock  of  little  barques  that  gayly  skim 
Backward  and  forth,  as  wayward  zephyrs  blow, 
Like  buoyant  swans,  all  white  as  wint'ry  snow; 
And  hear  the  distant  waves  so  faintly  roar 
On  the  white  sand,  or  whiter  pebbled  shore, 
Mix'd  with  the  whip-poor-will,  and  warbling  train, 
That  hail  the  evening  with  their  mingled  strain; 


THE  BACKWOODSMAN. 

And,  over  all,  to  see  the  Sun's  last  rajs 

Gild  the  glad  world,  and  make  the  forests  blaze. — 

Yes — thus  to  sit  in  some  gay  solitude, 

And  call  around  him  Memory's  shadowy  brood, 

By  turning  to  the  folded  leaf  to  look 

For  some  sweet  record,  in  Time's  sacred  book, 

That  brings  to  mind  a  train  of  gentle  themes, 

Ideal  joys,  and  sprites  of  long  past  dreams 

Of  happy  times,  I  never  may  forget, 

That  thrill  with  no  sharp  pang  of  keen  regret, 

But  like  the  splendours  of  a  summer  day, 

Amid  the  western  clouds  more  sweetly  play, 

Reflected  in  the  skies  when  day  is  past, 

Each  varying  hue  still  softer  than  the  last — 

This  is  my  happiness — and  those  who  know 

A  surer  path  to  peace  on  Earth  below, 

May  keep  it  to  themselves— I  lack  it  not, 

Content  with  what  I  am — and  with  my  lot. 

Even  Basil,  as  all  desolate  he  lay, 

Felt  the  bland  influence  of  Spring's  newborn  sway; 

The  Sun's  warm  beams  like  oil  of  gladness  came, 

And  pour'd  fresh  vigour  through  his  wasted  frame; 

c  2 


18  THE  BACKWOODSMAN. 

Relax'd  his  rigid  muscles  like  a  charm, 

And  now  a  leg,  and  now  a  helpless  arm, 

Reviv'd  to  motion,  life,  and  liberty, 

Till  in  good  time  his  wasted  frame  was  free; 

Life  through  his  withered  trunk  resistless  flow'd, 

And  his  brown  cheek  with  Health's  own  colour  glow'd. 

Yet  though  Health  came,  and  in  her  jocund  train 

Brought  all  his  wonted  comforts  back  again, 

Still  anxious  cares  would  throng  his  manly  breast, 

And  poison  many  an  hour  of  toil  and  rest. 

The  thought,  when  wint'ry  frosts  again  came  round, 

And  dash'd  the  forest's  honours  to  the  ground, 

Its  chilling  influence  might  again  renew 

The  scene  that  cleft  his  stubborn  heart  in  two; 

That  once  again  himself,  his  babes,  his  wife, 

Might  be  indebted  for  a  niggard  life, 

To  those  who  had  but  little  to  bestow, 

Wak'd  in  his  heart  anticipated  wo, 

And  rous'd  his  spirit  to  go  any  where, 

Rather  than  such  a  beggar'd  lot  to  share. 

At  last  there  reach'd  his  eager  listening  ear, 

A  tale  that  made  his  heart  leap  light  to  hear; 


THE  BACKWOODSMAN. 

'Twas  said  that  o'er  the  hills,  and  far  away, 
Towards  the  setting  sun,  a  land  there  lay, 
Whose  unexhausted  energies  of  soil 
Nobly  repaid  the  hardy  lab'rer's  toil; 
Where  men  were  worth  full  twice  their  weight  in 
And  goodly  farms  for  almost  nought  were  sold; 
Prairies  of  flowers,  and  grassy  meads  abound, 
And  rivers  every  where  meander  round. 

The  news  like  music  came  to  Basil's  ear, 
And  mov'd  his  mind  to  seek  a  refuge  here; 
What  though  long  tedious  miles  did  intervene, 
And  dangers  lurk  his  hopes  and  him  between; 
What  if  he  bade  a  long,  nay  last  adieu, 
To  scenes  his  earliest  feelings  fondly  knew, 
Bright  Independence  could  the  loss  repay, 
And  make  him  rich  amends  some  other  day; 
Better  to  leave  all  these,  and  friends  most  dear, 
Than  live  a  pining  pauper  half  the  year. 
His  trembling  wife,  when  this  resolve  was  known, 
Shrunk  from  the  journey  to  these  regions  lone, 
But  sooth'd,  at  last,  by  Hope's  persuasive  wile, 
Consented  gayly  with  a  tearful  smile; 


20  THE  BACKWOODSMAN. 

Brac'd  every  nerve  to  meet  the  parting  day, 
When  they  to  distant  lands  should  speed  away, 
And,  like  right  trusty  dame,  resolv'd  to  share 
The  good  man's  lot,  how  hard  soe'er  it  were. 

Soon  all  was  ready,  for  but  little  they 
To  such  far  distant  wilds  could  move  away, 
A  nd  if  they  could,  their  store  of  goods  was  small, 
And  little  time  it  took  to  pack  them  all: 
A  little  cover'd  cart  held  all  their  store, 
And,  sooth  to  say,  it  might  have  held  much  more: 
A  sturdy  nag,  right  rugged,  rough,  and  strong, 
Fitted  to  drag  such  equipage  along, 
"  Stood  ready  dight,"  as  minstrel  poets  say, 
To  speed  the  little  bevy  on  their  way: — 
Such  was  their  outfit  in  this  journey  lone, 
To  distant  wilds,  and  haunts  to  man  unknown. 

Now  all  was  ready — but  ere  starting  day 
To  village  church  poor  Basil  bent  his  way, 
To  ask  of  Him  whose  goodness  ne'er  denies 
The  prayers  from  honest  poverty  that  rise, 


THE  BACKWOODSMAN.  81 

Whose  help  is  ever  ready  for  the  man 
That  helps  himself,  when  help  himself  he  can- 
To  ask  for  steady  firmness  to  pursue 
The  honest  purpose  which  he  had  in  view; 
That  health  would  hover  round  his  lonely  way, 
And  God  protect  him  through  each  passing  day. 
He  begg'd  no  more — and  all  was  freely  given 
By  the  sweet  bounty  of  approving  Heav'n. 

And  now  the  simple  morning  service  o'er, 
The  neighbours  throng'd  round  Basil  at  the  door; 
For  they  had  heard  his  vent'rous  project  told — 
Some  thought  him  mad,  some  desperately  bold; — 
For  'twas  not  then  as  now — and  such  a  plan, 
Like  a  strange  wonder,  through  the  country  ran, 
And  people  star'd  that  he  should  leave  his  home, 
Among  the  western  wilds  afar  to  roam. 
The  pastor  bless'd  him  sadly  as  he  past, 
The  young  ones  look'd  as  though  they'd  look  their  last, 
While  aged  grandsires  many  a  story  told, 
That  made  the  breathless  list'ners'  blood  run  cold; 
Of  troops  of  howling  wolves  aye  prowling  round, 
Of  shaggy  bears  that  every  where  abound, 


22  THE  BACKWOODSMAN. 

And  bloody  Indian,  whose  infernal  yell, 
Of  torture,  death,  and  scalping  tells  full  well;  . 
Who  hated  blood  of  white-man  never  spares, 
Women,  nor  babes,  nor  reverend  snow  white  hairs. 
They  conjur'd  up  each  story  that  they  knew, 
And  car'd  not,  so  'twas  strange,  if  it  were  true* — 
Of  woodmen  shot  outright,  in  open  day, 
By  prowling  Indian  watching  for  his  prey; 
Of  sleeping  wife  and  babes,  rous'd  by  the  yell 
Of  him  whose  voice  is  Death's  shrill  howling  knell, 
Consumed  in  midnight  flames,  as  lone  they  lay, 
The  father  and  protector  far  away. 

Chill  horror  curdled  every  listener's  blood, 
And  stiff  on  end  the  urchins'  light  hair  stood, 
But  Basil  still  his  manly  heart  sustain'd, 
And  to  his  daring  purpose  firm  remain'd; 
Hope  was  his  guide,  and  led  by  that  bright  lure, 
Man  can  the  keenest  rubs  of  life  endure. 
He  was  no  haughty  lordling's  humble  slave, 
Stript  of  the  mantle  that  his  Maker  gave; 
No  dull  unletter'd  hireling,  whose  starv'd  mind 
Just  leaves,  and  hardly  leaves,  the  beast  behind; 


THE  BACKWOODSMAN.  £S 

Who  chains  and  strjpes  with  equal  calmness  bears, 

And,  so  he  eats  enough,  for  neither  cares; 

Fit  tenant  for  some  little  lord,  who  serves 

Some  little  king,  and,  what  he  gives,  deserves. 

No!  though  the  poorest  of  a  poor  man's  race, 

Our  Basil  was  not  born  to  such  disgrace; 

He  felt  that  he  was  free,  and  that  one  word, 

In  his  proud  heart,  a  noble  spirit  stirr'd, 

Whose  gallant  thrilling  through  his  pulses  ran, 

And  made  him  feel,  and  know  himself  a  man. 

He  shook  their  outstretched  hands,  and  bade  them  pray 

That  Heaven  would  speed  him  on  his  lonely  way; 

Then  sought  the  aged  tree,  beneath  whose  shade 

His  sire,  and  mother,  side  by  side  were  laid, 

Leant  o'er  the  simple  mounds  that  mark'd  the  spot, 

By  all,  save  him,  full  many  a  year  forgot, 

And  pray'd  to  live  a  life  of  honest  fame, 

And  leave  behind,  like  them,  a  spotless  name. 


THE 


BOOK  SECOND. 


THE  BACKWOODSMAN, 


BOOK  IL 


Luck  speed  the  wanderers!  for  at  morning  dawn 
The  lowly  pilgrims  from  their  home  were  gone, 
The  house  was  lifeless,  not  a  breathing  wight 
Abided  there  at  earliest  peep  of  light, 
Clos'd  were  the  windows,  barr'd  the  rustic  door, 
The  fire  was  quench'd,  to  lighten  never  more. 
The  wife  and  little  ones  together  rode, 
While  Basil  walk'd,  for  heavy  was  the  load, 
And  meet  it  was  to  spare  the  nag  the  while, 
Whose  pilgrimage  was  many  a  weary  mile. 
The  mother's  heart  was  like  to  die  away, 
As  looking  on  the  nestling  one  that  lay 
Sleeping,  in  smiles,  fast  in  her  circling  arms, 
And  budding  forth  in  all  its  infant  charms; 


28  THE  BACKWOODSMAN. 

The  brisk  boys  laugh'd  to  think  they'd  have  a  ride, 
Nor  reck'd  whatever  else  might  hap  beside; 
While  on  the  father's  brow  sat  anxious  care, 
And  brave  resolve  his  fated  lot  to  bear, 
Whether  mishap  betide,  or  bright  success, 
With  full  fruition  his  high  purpose  bless. 

Dark  was  the  early  dawn,  dun  vapours  chill, 
Cover'd  the  earth,  and  hid  the  distant  hill, 
A  veil  of  mist  obscur'd  the  struggling  day, 
That  seemed  to  grope  its  slow  uncertain  way; 
,   No  insect  chirp'd,  or  wakeful  twitt'ring  bird, 
Within  the  copse,  or  briery  dingle  stirr'd. 
Anon,  far  in  the  East  light  streaks  of  red 
O'er  the  gray  mists  a  tint  of  morning  shed, 
Brighter  and  still  more  bright  their  hues  unfold, 
Till  all  the  sky  was  fring'd  with  burnish'd  gold; 
Up  rose  the  gallant  Sun!  the  mists  away 
Vanished,  like  spectres,  at  the  dawn  of  day; 
No  silence  now  was  in  the  waken'd  groves, 
For  every  bird  began  to  chant  his  loves, 
And  all  the  liveried  rabble  insect  crew, 
That  crawPd  upon  the  jewelPd  earth,  or  flew, 


THE  BACKWOODSMAN. 

M  uster'd  their  merry  notes  and  frisk'd  away, 
In  many  coloured  vestments — who  but  they! 

'Twas  sweet  the  morning  minstrelsy  to  hear, 

And  Basil  felt  it  to  his  heart  most  dear, 

Although  it  was  no  bright  unsullied  joy, 

But  deeply  tinctur'd  with  a  sad  alloy; 

For,  as  with  painful  effort,  faint  and  slow, 

He  gain'd  the  height  that  look'd  o'er  all  below, 

And  stopt  to  rest,  and  tum'd  to  gaze  behind, 

A  thousand  tender  thoughts  throng'd  on  his  mind. 

Home  look'd  so  happy  in  the  Morning's  smile, 

He  quite  forgot  his  suff'rings  there  erewhile, 

And  but  for  honest  shame,  that  makes  us  fear 

The  pointed  finger,  and  the  taunting  sneer, 

That  never  fail  to  greet  the  wav'ring  man 

Who  weakly  swerves  from  any  settled  plan, 

He  had  return'd,  though  certain  there  again 

To  meet  his  old  associates,  Want  and  Pain. 

Ah!  there  is  something  in  the  name  of  home, 

That  sounds  so  sweetly  as  afar  we  roam! 

And  who  has  worried  through  this  world  so  lone, 

But  in  his  wand'rings  this  sad  truth  has  known, 

j>2 


30  THE  BACKWOODSMAN, 

Whatever  may  happen,  wheresoe'er  we  roam, 
However  homely,  still  there's  nought  like  home. 

In  truth  it  was  a  landscape  wildly  gay 
That  'neath  his  lofty  vision  smiling  lay; 
A  sea  of  mingling  hills,  with  forests  crown'd, 
E'en  to  their  summits,  waving  all  around, 
Save  where  some  rocky  steep  aloft  was  seen, 
Frowning  amid  the  wild  romantic  scene, 
Around  whose  brow,  where  human  step  ne'er  trode, 
Our  native  Eagle  makes  his  high  abode; 
Oft  in  the  warring  of  the  whistling  gales, 
Amid  the  scampering  clouds,  he  bravely  sails, 
Without  an  effort  winds  the  loftiest  sky, 
And  looks  into  the  Sun  with  steady  eye: 
Emblem  and  patron  of  this  fearless  land, 
He  mocks  the  might  of  any  mortal  hand, 
And,  proudly  seated  on  his  native  rock, 
Defies  the  World's  accumulated  shock. 
Here,  mid  the  piling  mountains  scatter'd  round, 
His  winding  way  majestic  Hudson  found, 
And  as  he  swept  the  frowning  ridge's  base, 
In  the  pure  mirror  of  his  morning  face, 


THE  BACKWOODSMAN. 

A  lovelier  landscape  caught  the  gazer's  view, 
Softer  than  nature,  yet  to  nature  true. 
Now  might  be  seen,  reposing  in  stern  pride, 
Against  the  mountain's  steep  and  rugged  side, 
High  Putnam's  battlements,  like  tow'r  of  old, 
Haunt  of  night-robbing  baron,  stout  and  bold, 
Scourge  of  his  neighbour,  Nimrod  of  the  chase, 
Slave  of  his  king,  and  tyrant  of  his  race. 
Beneath  its  frowning  brow,  and  far  below, 
The  weltering  waves,  unheard,  were  seen  to  flow 
Round  West  Point's  rude  and  adamantine  base, 
That  call'd  to  mind  old  Arnold's  deep  disgrace, 
Andre's  hard  fate,  lamented,  though  deserv'd, 
And  men,  who  from  their  duty  never  swervM — 
The  honest  three — the  pride  of  yeomen  bold, 
Who  savM  the  country  which  they  might  have  sold; 
Refus'd  the  proffer'd  bribe,  and,  sternly  true, 
Did  what  the  man  that  doubts  them  ne'er  would  do. 
Yes!  if  the  Scroll  of  neVer-dying  Fame, 
Shall  tell  the  truth,  'twill  bear  each  lowly  name; 
And  while  the  wretched  man,1  who  vainly  tried 
To  wound  their  honour,  and  his  Country's  pride, 


32  THE  BACKWOODSMAN. 

Shall  moulder  in  the  dirt  from  whence  he  came, 
Forgot,  or  only  recollected  to  his  shame, 
Quoted  shall  be  these  gallant,  honest  men, 
By  many  a  warrior's  voice,  and  poet's  pen, 
To  wake  the  sleeping  spirit  of  the  land, 
And  nerve  with  energy  the  patriot  band. 
Beyond,  on  either  side  the  river's  bound, 
Two  lofty  promontories  darkly  frown'd, 
Through  which,  in  times  long  past,  as  learned  say, 
The  pent  up  waters  forc'd  their  stubborn  way; 
Grimly  they  frown'd,  as  menacing  the  wave 
That  storm'd  their  bulwarks  with  its  current  brave, 
And  seem'd  to  threaten  from  their  shatter'd  brow, 
To  crush  the  vessels  all  becalmM  below, 
Whose  white  sails,  hanging  idly  at  the  mast, 
O'er  the  still  waves  a  deep  reflexion  cast. 
Still  farther  off,  the  Kaatskill,  bold  and  high, 
Kiss'd  the  pure  concave  of  the  arched  sky, 
Mingled  with  that  its  waving  lines  of  blue, 
And  shut  the  world  beyond  from  mortal  view. 

Poor  Basil  gaz'd  with  dim  and  sorrowing  eyes, 
And  seem'd  again  the  morning  mists  to  rise, 


THE  BACKWOODSMAN. 

While  every  object  that  in  happier  hour 

Had  often  charm'd  him  with  its  wak'ning  power, 

Shot  but  a  keener  pang  through  his  sad  heart. 

And  made  him  more  unwilling  to  depart. 

So,  to  the  dying  man,  the  fairest  scene 

But  marks  his  fate  with  agonies  more  keen; 

The  Sun's  bright  rays,  the  Morning's  mellow  smile, 

Potent  to  sooth  his  hours  of  health  erewhile; 

The  willow  tufted  stream,  that  shuns  the  day, 

Yet  by  soft  murmurs  does  its  haunt  betray; 

The  warblers  of  the  woodland,  sweet  and  wild, 

That  oft,  in  better  days,  his  steps  beguil'd; 

The  forms  he  loves  that  round  him  weeping  stand, 

Grasping  with  fond  solicitude  his  hand, 

As  if  with  tender  violence  to  stay 

The  tiptoe  spirit  on  its  airy  way;— 

All,  all  combin'd,  but  give  the  fatal  dart 

A  deadlier  venom,  and  a  keener  smart; 

Dearer  each  friend,  each  object  than  before, 

Just  as  we  leave  them,  ne'er  to  see  'em  more: 

'Tis  this  which  makes  the  bitterness  of  death, 

Which  else  were  nothing,  but  the  loss  of  breath. 


I  F 
34  THE  BACKWOODSMAN. 

Now  speed  we  on  our  way,  nor  stay  to  tell 
What  little  rubs,  or  small  mishaps  befel, 
As  all  through  Jersey's  pleasant  land  they  wend, 
And  many  a  valley  cross,  and  hill  ascend; 
What  smiling  scenes  they  saw,  and  what  did  not — 
Scenes  that,  by  me,  will  never  be  forgot! 
Or  where  they  stopt  to  rest,  or  sleep  at  night, 
Who  took  their  money,  who  refus'd  outright: 
Suffice,  they  reach'd  one  eve  of  Sabbath  day, 
Where  Delaware  pursues  his  winding  way 
Parting  the  sister  states,  that  side  by  side 
Smile  on  each  other  in  the  limpid  tide. 
'Twas  just  where  rambling  Lehigh — pleasant  stream! 
Fit  haunt  for  bard  to  wander  and  to  dream — 
Ev'n  like  a  gentle,  all  confiding  maid, 
By  true  Affection's  fondest  impulse  sway'd, 
Glides  into  Delaware's  encircling  arms, 
And  silently  surrenders  all  her  charms, 
Gives  up  her  very  being  evermore, 
And  that  sweet  virgin  name  of  old  she  bore. 

-•'  *,  k  ■  •  ■  m  Itiktf  hhj&t  #*#JPP ' ' '  ' 

'Twas  sunset's  hallow'd  time— and  such  an  eve 
Might  almost  tempt  an  angel  Heaven  to  leave. 


THE  BACKWOODSMAN. 


Never  did  brighter  glories  greet  the  eye, 
Low  in  the  warm,  and  ruddy  Western  sky, 
Nor  the  light  clouds  at  Summer  eve  unfold 
More  varied  tints  of  purple,  red,  and  gold. 
Some  in  the  pure,  translucent,  liquid  breast 
Of  crystal  lake,  fast  anchored  seem'd  to  rest, 
Like  golden  islets  scattered  far  and  wide, 
By  elfin  skill  in  Fancy's  fabled  tide, 
Where,  as  wild  Eastern  legends  idly  feign, 
Fairy,  or  genii,  hold  despotic  reign. 
Others,  like  .vessels,  gilt  with  burnish'd  gold, 
Their  flitting  airy  way  are  seen  to  hold, 
All  gallantly  equipt  with  streamers  gay, 
While  hands  unseen,  or  Chance,  directs  their  way; 
Around,  athwart,  the  pure  ethereal  tide, 
With  swelling  purple  sail,  they  rapid  glide, 
Gay  as  the  barque,  where  Egypt's  wanton  queen 
Reclining  on  the  shaded  deck  was  seen, 
At  which  as  gaz'd  the  uxorious  Roman  fool, 
The  subject  world  slipt  from  his  dotard  rule. 
Anon,  the  gorgeous  scene  bftgins  to  fade, 
And  deeper  hues  the  ruddy  skies  invade; 


36  THE  BACKWOODSMAN. 

The  haze  of  gathering  twilight  Nature  shrouds, 

And  pale,  and  paler,  wax  the  changeful  clouds. 

Then  sunk  the  breeze  into  a  breathless  calm, 

The  silent  dews  of  evening  dropt  like  balm; 

The  hungry  nighthawk  from  his  lone  haunt  hies, 

To  chase  the  viewless  insect  through  the  skies; 

The  bat  began  his  lantern  loving  flight, 

The  lonely  whip-poor-will,  our  bird  of  night,  * 

Ever  unseen,  yet  ever  seeming  near, 

His  shrill  note  quaver'd  in  the  startled  ear; 

The  buzzing  beetle  forth.did  gayly  hie, 

With  idle  hum,  and  careless  blundering  eye; 

The  little  trusty  watchman  of  pale  night, 

The  firefly,  trimm'd  anew  his  lamp  so  bright, 

And  took  his  merry  airy  circuit  round 

The  sparkling  meadow's  green  and  fragrant  bound, 

Where  blossom'd  clover,  bath'd  in  balmy  dew, 

In  fair  luxuriance,  sweetly  blushing  grew. 

0!  holy  Nature!  goddess  ever  dear, 
What  a  fair  scene  for  human  bliss  was  here! 
What  pleasant  rural  sports,  what  calm  delights, 
Dear  happy  Summer  days,  and  Winter  nights, 


THE  BACKWOODSMAN. 

Might  in  such  tranquil  nestling  place  be  spent, 
Lull'd  in  the  downy  lap  of  sweet  Content! 
But  vain  it  is,  that  rich  and  bounteous  Heav'n, 
To  wretched  man  this  smiling  Earth  has  giv'n, 
And  all  in  vain  its  winning  face  displays 
Such  beauties  to  allure  his  reckless  gaze, 
While  this  same  rash,  malignant,  reasoning  worm, 
Bereft  of  all  that's  human  but  the  form, 
Pollutes  ker  bosom  with  his  kindred  blood, 
Turns  to  rank  poison  all  her  proffer'd  good, 
And  plays  before  his  Maker's  sick'ning  eyes 
The  serpent  of  this  blooming  Paradise. 
Who  that  had  gaz'd  upon  a  scene  so  fair 
Had  dream'd  this  world  a  world  of  endless  care, 
Where  evil  deeds  lurk  ever  in  our  way, 
And  Piety  has  nought  to  do  but  pray; 
While  all  that  lures  to  ill  before  us  lies, 
And  all  that  tempts  to  good,  is  in  the  skies? 
Not  with  wing'd  angels  good  men  wrestle  here, 
Like  him  or  old,  whom  Israel's  tribes  revere; 
But  with  a  train  of  imps,  in  angel  guise, 
That  sometimes  even  cheat  the  wary  wise: 

E 


38  THE  BACKWOODSMAN. 

If  one  is  foil'd,  another  still  succeeds, 

For  victory  but  to  harder  trials  leads, 

Till  tired  at  last,  we  quit  the  hopeless  field, 

Or  to  the  weakest  of  the  tempters  yield, 

And  all  the  hard  earn'd  trophies  thus  restore, 

Rather  than  fight  one  puny  battle  more. 

The  op'ning  eyelids  of  the  blue  ey'd  day 
Saw  our  industrious  pilgrims  on  their  way; 
For  Spring  was  waning  fast,  the  Summer  near, 
And  Time  would  soon  evolve  the  passing  year; 
Winter  might  come  ere  yet  the  houseless  band 
Had  found  a  refuge  in  the  promised  land. 
No  idle  fools,  or  idle  knaves  are  they, 
Who  cannot  stay  at  home  their  pray'rs  to  say; 
No  barefoot  beggars,  cloth'd  in  rags  and  dirt, 
With  leathern  thong  equipt,  and  sackcloth  shirt, 
Leaving  the  sacred  duties  of  their  home 
In  search  of  shrines  or  holy  land  to  roam, 
As  if  the  God  who  hears  the  whisper'd  pray'r, 
Gave  not  his  equal  presence  every  where; 
No!  they  were  those  who  strove  with  gen'rous  aim, 
To  'scape  the  jaws  of  Beggary  and  Shame; 


/HE  BACKWOODSMAN. 

To  gain  amid  the  forest  wild  and  drear 
That  competence  to  honest  Worth  so  dear. 
Surely  such  pilgrims  seek  a  purer  shrine 
Than  tombs  of  men,  by  priestcraft  made  divine, 
And  surely  Heav'n  will  smile  upon  their  way, 
Ev'n  though  they  seek  not  holy  land  to  pray. 

Now  all  through  Pennsylvania's  pleasant  land, 
Unheeded  past  our  little  roving  band, 
— For  every  soul  had  something  here  to  do, 
Nor  turn'd  aside  our  cavalcade  to  view- 
By  Bethlehem,  where  Moravian  exiles  bide, 
In  rural  paradise,  on  Lehigh's  side, 
And  York  and  Lancaster— whose  rival  rose 
In  this  good  land,  no  bloody  discord  knows. 
Not  such  their  fate!— the  ever  grateful  soil 
Rewards  the  blue-ey'd  German's  patient  toil; 
Richer  and  rounder  every  year  he  grows, 
Nor  other  ills  his  Stagnant  bosom  knows 
Than  caitiff  grub,  and  cursed  Hessian  fly, 
Mildews,  and  smuts,  a  dry  or  humid  sky; 
Before  he  sells,  the  market's  sudden  fall, 
Or  sudden  rise,  when  sold— still  worse  than  all! 


40  THE  BACKWOODSMAN. 

Calmly  he  lives — the  tempest  of  the  mind, 
That  marks  its  course  by  many  a  wreck  behind; 
The  purpose  high  that  great  Ambition  feels, 
Sometimes  perchance  upon  his  vision  steals, 
But  never  in  his  sober  waking  thought 
One  stirring,  active  impulse  ever  wrought. 
Calmly  he  lives- — as  free  from  good  as  blame, 
His  home,  his  dress,  his  equipage  the  same, 
And  when  he  dies,  in  sooth,  'tis  soon  forgot 
What  once  he  was,  or  what  he  once  was  not — 
An  honest  man,  perhaps, — 'tis  somewhat  odd, 
That  such  should  be  the  noblest  work  of  God! 

So  have  I  seen  in  garden  rich  and  gay,  . 
A  stately  cabbage  waxing  fat  each  day; 
Unlike  the  lively  foliage  of  the  trees, 
Its  stubborn  leaves  ne'er  wave  in  Summer  breeze, 
Nor  flower,  like  those  that  prank  the  walks  around, 
Upon  its  clumsy  stem  is  ever  found; 
It  heeds  not  noontide  heats,  or  Evening's  balm, 
And  stands  unmov'd  in  one  eternal  calm. 
At  last,  when  all  the  Garden's  pride  is  lost, 
It  ripens  in  drear  Autumn's  killing  frost* 


THE  BACKWOODSMAN. 

And  in  a  sav'ry  sourkrout  finds  its  end, 
From  which  detested  dish,  me  Heaven  defend! 

Now  reach'd  they  Susquehanna's  classic  stream, 

Well  worthy  of  the  poet's  lay  I  deem, 

And  sweetly  is  it  sung  by  him  whose  verse 

Erewhile  did  Wyoming's  sad  tale  rehearse, 

In  simple,  plaintive,  melancholy  lay, 

Worthy  the  sweetest  minstrel  of  our  day: 

No  need  that  I  should  tell  his  gentle  name, 

You'll  find  it  on  the  roll  of  deathless  Fame. 

In  toilsome  journey  many  a  mile  they  past, 

And  reach'd  long  Alleghany's  foot  at  last; 

Wild,  endless  chain!  that  rising  in  the  North, 

Where  stout  St.  Lawrence  heaves  his  waters  forth, 

Pursues  its  devious  course,  firm  bas'd  and  high, 

Dark  barrier  of  the  East  and  Western  sky, 

And  knits  the  sister  states  in  one  great  band, 

Ne'er  to  be  sever'd  by  a  mortal  hand. 

Here,  seated  where  the  first  and  last  bright  ray 

Of  morn  and  ev'ning  round  his  footing  play, 

By  past  time,  present,  and  the  future  bless'd, 

Besides  the  genius  of  the  glowing  West. 

e2 


42  THE  BACKWOODSMAN. 

High  thron'd  amid  the  pure  ethereal  skies, 
The  East  and  West  with  equal  ken  he  eyes, 
Watches  with  equal  care  each  sister  state, 
The  new  and  old,  the  little  and  the  great; 
With  equal  pleasure  sees  the  Sun  arise 
In  ruddy  East,  or  set  in  Western  skies, 
And  joys,  from  petty  local  feelings  free, 
In  all  the  Land's  combined  prosperity. 

4 

Here,  too,  the  god  of  mighty  rivers  bides, 
And  his  exhaustless  urn  pours  down  its  sides; 
Some  westward  roll,  and,  gathering  on  their  way, 
Through  untrack'd  glens  and  shady  labyrinths  stray, 
Whence  stealing  from  their  woods  to  fruitful  plains, 
Where  gen'rous  Plenty  greets  industrious  swains, 
They  meet  at  last  on  fair  Ohio's  side, 
And  lose  their  being  in  that  ample  tide. 
Others,  far  eastward  wending,  find  their  way 
To  Pennsylvanian  landscapes  rich  and  gay, 
Or  through  long  devious  vales,  meandering  slow, 
To  southern  lands,  still  gathering  on  they  flow, 
Till  centering  in  Potomac's  ample  wave, 
The  sister  states  on  either  side  they  lave, 


THE  BACKWOODSMAN.  43 

And  in  the  deep  Atlantic's  breast  at  last, 
Through  Chesapeake's  wide  op'ning  all  are  cast. 

Hard  was  the  tugging  up  that  mighty  hill, 
Full  oft  the  sturdy  pony  stood  stock  still; 
And  had  not  Basil  watch'd  the  wheel  right  well, 
Back  they  had  tumbled — where,  no  soul  can  tell. 
At  last  they  reach'd  the  summit  rough  and  high, 
Just  as  the  stars  began  to  gem  the  sky, 
And  twinkle,  as  if  weeping  those  light  dews 
Which  pale-ey'd  Evening  o'er  the  parch'd  Earth  strews: 
They  sought  the  hut  where  lowly  trav'llers  bide, 
And  nestling  close  together,  side  by  side, 
Napp'd  it  right  sweetly  till  the  Morn's  gay  smile 
Rous'd  to  another  long,  long  day  of  toil. 

Hail,  blessed  Night!  tir'd  Nature's  holiday! 
When  all  the  lab'ring  world  has  leave  to  play; 
Thou  smooth'st  the  sweating  workman's  wrinkled  brow, 
The  galley  slave,  and  peasant  at  the  plough, 
The  stooping  sitheman,  and  the  axeman  good, 
Whose  weapon's  like  a  whirlwind  in  the  wood, 


44  THE  BACKWOODSMAN. 

Love  thy  pale  shadows,  as  with  watchful  eye 
They  trace  the  Sun  adown  the  western  sky, 
Thou  mak'st  them  sweet  amends  for  toilsome  pain 
By  the  light  rest  they  find  beneath  thy  reign. 
Not  so  th'  ill -neighboured  lids  of  Di  scontent; 
They  hold  no  fellowship — and  night  is  spent 
In^dull  repinings  at  our  wayward  fate, 
Or  quarrels  with  that  world  we  love  and  hate, 
And  while  rough  Labour  sleeps  on  rocks  alone, 
To  such  the  downy  pillow  seems  a  stone. 

Our  Basil  beat  the  lazy  Sun  next  day> 
And  bright  and  early  had  been  on  his  way, 
But  that  the  world  he  saw  e'en  yesternight, 
Seem'd  faded  like  a  vision  from  his  sight. 
One  endless  chaos  spread  before  his  eyes, 
No  vestige  left  of  Earth  or  azure  skies, 
A  boundless  nothingness  reign'd  every  where, 
Hid  the  green  fields,  and  silent  all  the  air. 
As  look'd  the  traveller  for  the  world  below, 
The  lively  morning  breeze  began  to  blow, 
The  magic  curtain  roll'd  in  mists  away, 
And  a  gay  landscape  laugh'd  upon  the  day. 


THE  BACKWOODSMAN. 

As  light  the  fleeting  vapours  upward  glide, 
Like  sheeted  spectres  on  the  mountain  side, 
New  objects  open  to  his  wondering  view 
Of  various  form,  and  combinations  new, 
A  rocky  precipice,  a  waving  wood, 
Deep  winding  dell,  and  foaming  mountain  flood, 
Each  after  each,  with  coy  and  sweet  delay, 
Broke  on  his  sight,  as  at  young  dawn  of  day, 
Bounded  afar  by  peak  aspiring  bold, 
Like  giant  capt  with  helm  of  burnished  gold. 
So  when  the  wandering  grand  sire  of  our  race 
On  Ararat  had  found  a  resting  place, 
At  first  a  shoreless  ocean  met  his  eye, 
Mingling  on  every  side  with  one  blue  sky; 
But  as  the  waters,  every  passing  day, 
Sunk  in  the  earth,  or  rolPd  in  mists  away, 
Gradual,  the  lofty  hills,  like  islands  peep, 
From  the  rough  bosom  of  the  boundless  deep, 
Then  the  round  hillocks  and  the  meadows  green, 
Each  after  each,  in  freshened  bloom  are  seen, 
Till,  at  the  last,  a  fair  and  finished  whole 
Combin'd  to  win  the  gazing  patriarch's  soul. 


46  THE  BACKWOODSMAN. 

Yet  oft  he  lookM,  I  ween,  with  anxious  eye, 

In  lingering  hope  somewhere,  perchance,  to  spy, 

Within  the  silent  world,  some  living  thing, 

Crawling  on  earth,  or  moving  on  the  wing, 

Or  man,  or  beast — alas!  was  neither  there, 

Nothing  that  breath'd  of  life  in  earth  or  air; 

Twas  a  vast  silent  mansion  rich  and  gay, 

Whose  occupant  was  drown'd  the  other  day; 

A  church-yard,  where  the  gayest  flowers  oft  bloom 

Amid  the  melancholy  of  the  tomb; 

A  charnel  house,  where  all  the  human  race 

Had  piPd  their  bones  in  one  wide  resting  place; 

Sadly  he  turn'd  from  such  a  sight  of  wo, 

And  sadly  sought  the  lifeless  world  below. 

Now  down  the  mountain's  rugged  western  side, 
Descending  slow,  our  lowly  travellers  hied, 
Deep  in  a  narrow  glen,  within  whose  breast 
The  rolling  fragments  of  the  mountain  rest; 
Rocks  tumbled  on  each  other,  by  rude  chance^ 
CrownM  with  gay  fern,  and  mosses,  met  the  glance, 
Through  which  a  brawling  river  brav'd  its  way, 
Dashing  among  the  rocks  in  foamy  spray. 


THE  BACKWOODSMAN*,  47 

Here,  mid  the  fragments  of  a  broken  world, 

In  wild  and  rough  confusion,  idly  hurl'd, 

Where  ne'er  was  heard  the  woodman's  echoing  stroke, 

Rose  a  huge  forest  of  gigantic  oak; 

With  heads  that  tower'd  half  up  the  mountain's  side, 

And  arms  extending  round  them  far  and  wide, 

They  look'd  coeval  with  old  mother  Earth, 

And  seem'd  to  claim  with  her  an  equal  birth. 

There,  by  a  lofty  rock's  moss-mantled  base, 

Our  tir'd  advent'rers  found  a  resting  place; 

Beneath  its  dark,  o'erhanging,  sullen  brow, 

The  little  bevy  nestled  snug  below, 

And  with  right  sturdy  appetite,  and  strong, 

Devour 'd  the  rustic  meal  they  brought  along. 

The  squirrel  ey'd  them  from  his  lofty  tree, 
And  chirp'd  as  wont,  with  merry  morning  glee; 
The  woodcock  crow'd  as  if  alone  he  were, 
Or  heeded  not  the  strange  intruders  there, 
Sure  sign  they  little  knew  of  man's  proud  race 
In  that  sequester'd  mountain  biding  place; 
For  wheresoe'er  his  wandering  footsteps  tend, 
Man  never  makes  the  rural  train  his  friend; 


48    *  THE  BACKWOODSMAN. 

Acquaintance  that  brings  other  beings  near, 

Produces  nothing  but  distrust  or  fear; 

Beasts  flee  from  man,  the  more  his  heart  they  know, 

And  fears,  at  last,  to  fix'd  aversion  grow. 

As  thus  in  blithe  serenity  they  sat, 

Beguiling  resting  time  with  lively  chat, 

A  distant,  half  heard  murmur  caught  the  ear, 

Each  moment  waxing  louder,  and  more  near, 

A  dark  obscurity  spread  all  around, 

And  more  than  twilight  seem'd  to  veil  the  ground, 

While  not  a  leaf  ev'n  of  the  aspin  stirr'd, 

And  not  a  sound,  but  that  low  moan  was  heard. 

There  is  a  moment  when  the  boldest  heart 

That  would  not  stoop  an  inch  to  'scape  Death's  dart, 

That  never  shrunk  from  certain  danger  here, 

Will  quail  and  shiver  with  an  aguish  fear; 

?Tis  when  some  unknown  mischief  hovers  nigh, 

And  Heav'n  itself  seems  threat'ning  from  on  high. 

Brave  was  our  Basil,  as  became  a  man, 
Yet  still  his  blood  a  little  cooler  ran, 
'Twixt  fear  and  wonder,  at  that  murmur  drear, 
That  every  moment  wax'd  more  loud  and  near. 


THE  BACKWOODSMAN.  49 

The  riddle  soon  was  read — at  last  it  came, 

And  Nature  trembled  to  her  inmost  frame; 

The  forest  roar'd,  the  everlasting  oak 

In  writhing  agonies  the  storm  bespoke, 

The  live  leaves  scattered  wildly  every  where, 

Whirl'd  round  in  madd'ning  circles  in  the  air, 

The  stoutest  limbs  were  scattered  all  around, 

The  stoutest  trees  a  stouter  master  found, 

Crackling,  and  crashing,  down  they  thund'ring  go, 

And  seem  to  crush  the  shrinking  rocks  below: 

Then  the  thick  rain  in  gathering  torrents  pour'd, 

Higher  the  river  rose  and  louder  roar'd, 

And  on  its  dark,  quick  eddying  surface  bore 

The  gathered  spoils  of  Earth  along  its  shore* 

While  trees  that  not  an  hour  before  had  stood 

The  lofty  monarchs  of  the  stately  wood, 

Now  whirling  round  and  round  with  furious  force, 

Dash  'gainst  the  rocks  that  breast  the  torrent's  force, 

And  shiver  like  a  reed  by  urchin  broke, 

Through  idle  mischief,  or  with  heedless  stroke; 

A  hundred  cataracts,  unknown  before, 

Rush  down  the  mountain's  side  with  fearful  roar, 

F 


^0  THE  BACKWOODSMAN. 

And  as  with  foaming  fury  down  they  go, 

Loose  the  firm  rocks  and  thunder  them  below; 

Blue  light'nings  from  the  dark  cloud's  bosom  sprung, 

Like  serpents,  menacing  with  forked  tongue, 

While  many  a  sturdy  oak  that  stiffly  brav'd 

The  threatening  hurricane  that  round  it  rav'd, 

Shiver'd  beneath  its  bright  resistless  flash, 

Came  tumbling  down  amain  with  fearful  crash. 

Air,  Earth,  and  Skies,  seem'd  now  to  try  their  pow'r, 

And  struggle  for  the  mastery  of  the  hour; 

Higher  the  waters  rose,  and  blacker  still, 

And  threatened  soon  the  narrow  vale  to  fill. 

Where  are  the  little  bold  wayfarers  now 
We  left,  erewhile  beneath  the  rude  rock's  brow? 
Does  that  same  Pow'r,  whose  voice  in  thunder  roars, 
Whose  breath,  the  whirlwind,  might  the  waters  pours, 
Still  watch  amid  this  hour  of  wild  alarm, 
And  shield  the  trembling  wanderers  from  harm? 
Yes!  there  they  sat  like  lambs  within  their  fold, 
While  all  around  the  swelling  waters  roll'd, 


THE  BACKWOODSMAN.  51 

Making  an  island  of  the  little  space 

Where  they  had  found  their  pleasant  resting  place: 

Close  to  their  pent  up  feet  the  torrent  past, 

And  every  moment  seem'd  as  'twere  the  last; 

For  still  the  rain  in  gathering  fury  pour'd, 

And  still  the  river  rose,  and  louder  roar'd. 

The  trembling  wife  and  boys  sat  moveless  by, 
Watching,  in  breathless  stillness,  Basil's  eye, 
Perchance  to  see  if  from  its  orb  there  broke 
A  ray  that  bright  deliverance  bespoke, 
For  still  in  Danger's  most  besetting  hour, 
There  is  a  lofty  and  resistless  power 
Thron'd  in  the  steady  visage  and  calm  eye 
That  knows  what  danger  is,  yet  dares  to  die. 
'Tis  here  when  Hope  with  long  exertions  tires, 
The  fainting  spirit  lights  its  waning  fires, 
'Tis  here  that  Weakness,  when  the  blood  is  froze, 
Turns  her  dim  eyes,  when  these  she  dare  unclose, 
And  infant  instinct  aye  to  reason  true, 
Looks,  and  still  feels  its  confidence  renew. 


o£  THE  BACKWOODSMAN. 

As  raving  madness,  when  the  fit  is  o'er, 
Sinks  fainting  down,  still  weaker  than  before, 
Sudden  tir'd  Nature  sunk  in  calm  repose; 
The  storm  subsided  rapid  as  it  rose; 
The  dark  clouds  saiPcl  behind  the  mountain's  head, 
The  river  shrunk  within  its  wonted  bed; 
The  laughing  sunbeams  on  its  surface  play, 
And  blithe  as  birds  our  pilgrims  wend  their  way, 
For  as  upon  the  wrecks  their  eyes  they  cast, 
Their  hearts  grew  lighter  for  the  danger  past. 
Few  days  now  brought  them  to  their  journey's  close, 
And  gave  the  weary  wand'rers  short  repose, 
Ohio's  gentle  stream  before  them  lay, 
In  tranquil  silence  gliding  on  its  way, 
And  parting,  with  its  current  as  it  ran, 
The  prowling  savage  from  the  christian  man. 

Here  lay  dark  Pittsburgh,  from  whose  site  there  broke 
The  manufacturer's  black  and  sparkling  smoke, 
Where  Industry  and  useful  Science  reign'd, 
And  man,  by  labour,  all  his  wants  sustain'd; 


THE  BACKWOODSMAN. 

There,  mid  the  howling  forest  dark  and  drear, 
Rov'd  the  wild  Indian,  wilder  than  the  deer, 
King  of  the  woods — who  other  blessings  priz'd, 
And  arts  and  industry  alike  despis'd: 
Hunting  the  trade,  and  war  the  sport  he  loved, 
Free  as  the  winds,  the  dauntless  chieftain  rov'd, 
Taunting  with  bitter  ire,  the  pale-fac'd  slave, 
Who  toils  for  gold  from  cradle  to  the  grave. 
Extremes  of  habits,  manners,  time  and  space, 
Brought  close  together,  here  stood  face  to  face, 
And  gave  at  once  a  contrast  to  the  view 
That  other  lands  and  ages  never  knew; 
Pass  but  the  river,  and  that  world  where  meet 
Of  bland  society  each  courteous  sweet, 
Is  left  behind,  for  manners  wild  and  rude, 
And  scenes  of  death,  or  deathlike  solitude. 

Sweet  river  of  the  West!  a  purer  wave, 

A  fairer  region  never  yet  did  lave! 

Tranquil,  and  smooth,  and  clear,  its  current  roves 

Through  flowery  meadows,  and  long  sylvan  groves; 

f  2 


54  THE  BACKWOODSMAN* 

Winding  in  silence  on  its  destin'd  way, 

Idly  it  lingers  with  a  sweet  delay, 

And  often  turns,  as  if  its  course  to  find, 

Back  to  the  smiling  scenes  it  left  behind. 

Sweet  river  of  the  West!  though  yet  unsung 

By  native  bard,  thy  native  vales  among— 

Though  yet  no  strains  of  native  music  pour, 

To  wake  the  sleeping  echoes  of  thy  shore, 

Ere  long  some  minstrel  from  thy  banks  shall  spring, 

And  track  thy  wanderings  with  a  loftier  wing, 

In  worthier  strains  thy  various  charms  rehearse, 

And  in  oblivion  drown  my  weaker  verse. 

Yes!  the  bright  day  is  dawning,  when  the  West 
No  more  shall  crouch  before  old  Europe's'  crest, 
When  men  who  claim  thy  birthright,  Liberty, 
Shall  burst  their  leading-strings  and  dare  be  free, 
Nor  while  they  boast  thy  blessings,  trembling  stand, 
Like  dastard  slaves  before  her,  cap  in  hand, 
Cherish  her  old  absurdities  as  new, 
And  all  her  cast-off  follies  here  renew; 


THE  BACKWOODSMAN. 

Statesmen  no  more  from  thence  their  precepts  draw, 
And  borrow  both  their  reason  and  their  law, 
Like  advertising  quacks,  right  wond'rous  sage, 
With  the  same  nostrums  cure  both  youth  and  age, 
And  blundering  up  the  lofty  steeps  of  fame, 
Break  down  the  vigour  of  our  youthful  frame, 
With  stimulatives,  fitted  to  revive 
Some  worn  out  profligate,  scarce  half  alive; 
When  Mind  at  last  shall  break  its  rusty  chain, 
And  here,  our  chosen  monarch,  freely  reign. 


* 


THE 


BOOK  THIRD. 


THE  BACKWOODSMAN. 


BOOK  III. 


Who  says  that  Fortune  cannot  see  or  feel, 
But  crushes  Merit  with  her  rolling  wheel, 
While  Vice  and  Folly  still  her  favours  share, 
And  claim,  like  children,  all  the  parent  care? 
Whoever  says  so,  has  nor  wit  nor  eyes, 
And  the  bright  dame  with  foolish  spleen  belies, 
For  look  abroad  which  ever  way  we  may, 
Courage  and  Prudence  still  her  motions  sway, 
Slave  to  their  steady,  unrelaxing  rule, 
She  plays  the  tyrant  only  with  the  fool. 
Without  that  foresight,  which  the  danger  spies,  " 
That  courage  which  each  obstacle  defies, 
Imprudence  still,  to  hide  its  burning  shame, 
Will  cast  on  adverse  Fortune  all  the  blame, 


60  THE  BACKWOODSMAN. 

While  baffled  Cowardice  for  ever  throws 

On  cruel  stars,  what  to  itself  it  owes; 

But  those  who  grapple  Danger,  and  provide 

'Gainst  probable  mischance  that  may  betide, 

To  her  own  wheel  the  conquered  dame  may  chain, 

And  o'er  her  golden  realm  despotic  reign. 

What  oft  to  flinching  Folly  madness  seems, 

Keen  calculating  Courage  easy  deems; 

Distant  and  rumour'd  dangers  greater  loom, 

Like  objects  peering  through  the  misty  gloom, 

The  farther,  still  the  loftier  they  appear, 

And  sink  to  nothing  as  we  come  more  near. 

So  mountains  when  far  off  they  catch  the  eye, 

Seem  a  steep  wall  connecting  earth  and  sky, 

Impassable  to  every  living  thing, 

Or  man,  or  beast,  or  bird  on  vent'rous  wing, 

While  fearful  Fancy  paints  the  other  side, 

One  boundless  waste,  extending  far  and  wide. 

But  gain'd  at  length,  the  last  and  boldest  height, 

A  fair  reality  breaks  on  the  sight, 

Blithe  we  look  forward,  happy  still  to  find 

Just  such  a  world  as  that  we  left  behind. 


THE  BACKWOODSMAN. 

Thus  Basil — when  he  left  his  rural  home, 
In  search  of  better  fortune  far  to  roam, 
His  fancy  pictured  years  of  solitude, 
Far  from  the  haunts  of  men  in  regions  rude; 
That  shut  from  all  the  sweets  of  social  life, 
Himself,  his  growing  boys,  and  faithful  wife, 
With  howling  beasts  would  congregate  the  while, 
And  never  see  another  being  smile, 
Or  hear  a  human  voice,  save  Indian  yell, 
Shaking  the  forest  with  its  echoing  swell. 
But  happy  Chance,  that  like  the  Summer  breeze, 
Can  bring  or  rain  or  sunshine  as  she  please, 
And  oft  with  her  good-natur'd  gambols  cheers 
The  present  sorrow,  or  the  future  fears, 
Ordain'd  that  here  a  little  band  he  found, 
With  him  upon  the  self  same  errand  bound, 
Who  hail'd  with  welcome  our  wayfaring  man, 
And  joy'd  in  such  associates  in  their  plan. 
Now  blither  was  the  hope  that  led  the  way, 
And  Basil's  heart  wax'd  lighter  every  day, 
Till  all  the  little  preparations  o'er, 
Our  vent'rous  band  sought  fair  Ohio's  shore, 


62  THE  BACKWOODSMAN. 

Loosen'd  their  boats,  and  grasp'd  the  off er'd  hand 

Of  many  a  stranger  that  around  did  stand; 

For  now  about  to  leave,  a  long,  long  while, 

The  gentle  world  of  courtesy  and  smile, 

And  reft  of  all  its  hallo wM  sweets,  sojourn 

In  lonely  lands,  iv^tebf  e  they  might  ne'er  return; 

Around  their  lingering  eyes  full  oft  they  cast, 

And  gaz'd,  as  people  do,  who  look  their  last, 

While  every  soul  of  all  the  stranger  train 

Seem'd  a  dear  friend  they  ne'er  should  meet  again. 

A  simple  scene!  yet  if  we  view  it  well, 

rTwill  soon  to  grander  outlines  haply  swell, 

For  here  we  see,  as  on  a  chart  unfurPd, 

The  destinies  of  this  great  Western  world. 

So  came  our  ancestors,  stern  volunteers! 

Who  knew  the  dangers,  yet  despis'd  the  fears; 

Thus  did  they  sever  many  a  heart-knit  tie 

Freedom  and  competence  to  win?  or  die; 

And  thus  their  hardy  offspring  dare  to  roam, 

Far  in  the  West,  to  seek  a  happier  home, 

To  push  the  red-man  from  his  solitude, 

And  plant  refinement  in  the  forest  rude, 


THE  BACKWOODSMAN. 

Thus  daringly  their  glorious  race  to  run, 
Ev'n  to  the  regions  of  yon  setting  sun. 

Now,  fare  thee  well— dear  haunts  of  social  men! 
Long  may  it  be,  ere  we  shall  meet  again! 
Farewell  the  village  church,  and  tolling  bell, 
Sounding  to  prayers,  or  rustic  fun'ral  knell; 
The  lively  fields,  where  men  and  herds  are  seen 
Sporting,  and  lab'ring  morn  and  eve  between; 
The  smoke  of  rural  hamlet  curling  high 
Above  the  trees,  in  peaceful  Summer  sky; 
The  ploughman's  whistle,  and  the  lambkin's  bleat, 
The  tinkling  music  of  the  herd,  so  sweet — 
All,  all  farewell!  far  other  scenes  of  life, 
Rude  forest  labours,  and  wild  savage  strife, 
My  vent'rous  song,  perchance,  will  soon  rehearse, 
And  rougher  scenes  demand  a  loftier  verse. 

Come  then,  our  native  Muse — bred  in  the  wild* 
Drear  Solitude  and  lonely  Fancy's  child! 
If  ever  thou  didst  shiver  and  turn  pale, 
Yet  love  to  listen  to  some  bloody  tale, 


64  THE  BACKWOODSMAN. 

That  thrilPd  with  wild  and  terrible  alarm, 
Yet  held  thee  breathless  in  its  magic  charm; — 
If  ever  thou  didst  pause  in  moss-grown  glen, 
Unprinted  yet  by  track  of  wandering  men, 
To  listen  to  the  wolf's  long  quavering  howl, 
Or  shrill  sharp  shriek  of  twilight  prowling  owl, 
Whose  music  turns  the  startled  ploughman  pule, 
As  lone,  like  thee,  he  lingers  in  the  dale, 
Musing  on  rustic  damsel,  passing  fair, 
Whose  eye  half  promised  she  would  meet  him  there;— 
If  ever  in  some  cloud-bespeckled  night, 
When  the  moon  glanc'd  a  wayward  flickering  light, 
And  shadows  ever  changing  in  the  breeze, 
Seem  shapeless  monsters  gliding  through  the  trees, 
Thou  wert  beguiPd  through  church-yard  path  to  roam, 
That  led,  perchance,  a  nearer  way  to  home, 
And  fancy 'd  that  there  met  thy  watchful  ear, 
A  sound,  so  low,  so  sad,  so  chill,  and  drear, 
As  if  some  long  clos'd,  clammy,  fleshless  grave 
Had  op'd  its  stubborn  jaws,  and  groaning  gave 
Its  mouldering  bones  awhile  to  roam  at  will, 
Through  midnight  shades  all  damp  and  deadly  still, 


THE  BACKWOODSMAN. 

Until  Aurora,  and  her  sprightly  train, 
Should  chase  them  to  their  narrow  cell  again; — 
If  such  thy  haunts  and  themes,  I  woo  thee  now, 
Come  hover  o'er  thy  lowly  suppliant's  brow, 
And  with  thy  gloomy  soul  my  verse  inspire, 
While  vent'rously  I  wake  the  untouch'd  lyre. 

As  down  Ohio's  ever  ebbing  tide, 
Oarless  and  sailless  silently  they  glide, 
How  still  the  scene,  how  lifeless,  yet  how  fair, 
Was  the  lone  land  that  met  the  strangers  there! 
No  smiling  villages,  or  curling  smoke, 
The  busy  haunts  of  busy  men  bespoke, 
No  solitary  hut,  the  banks  along, 
Sent  forth  blithe  Labour's  homely  rustic  song, 
No  urchin  gambol'd  on  the  smooth  white  sand, 
Or  hurl'd  the  skipping-stone  with  playful  hand, 
While  playmate  dog  plung'd  in  the  clear  blue  wave, 
And  swam,  in  vain,  the  sinking  prize  to  save. 
Where  now  are  seen  along  the  river  side, 
Young  busy  towns,  in  buxom  painted  pride, 
And  fleets  of  gliding  boats  with  riches  crown'd, 

To  distant  Orleans  or  St.  Louis  bound, 

g2 


66  THE  BACKWOODSMAN. 

Nothing  appear'd,  but  Nature  unsubdu'd, 
One  endless,  noiseless,  woodland  solitude, 
Or  boundless  prairie,  that  aye  seem'd  to  be 
As  level,  and  as  lifeless  as  the  sea; 
They  seem'd  to  breathe  in  this  wide  world  alone, 
Heirs  of  the  Earth — the  land  was  all  their  own! 

'Twas  Evening  now — the  hour  of  toil  was  o'er, 
Yet  still  they  durst  not  seek  the  fearful  shore, 
Lest  watchful  Indian  crew  should  silent  creep, 
And  spring  upon,  and  murder  them  in  sleep; 
So  through  the  livelong  night  they  held  their  way, 
And  'twas  a  night  might  shame  the  fairest  day, 
So  still,  so  bright,  so  tranquil  was  its  reign, 
They  car'd  not  though  the  day  ne'er  came  again. 
The  Moon  high  wheel'd  the  distant  hills  above, 
Silver'd  the  fleecy  foliage  of  the  grove, 
That  as  the  wooing  zephyrs  on  it  fell, 
Whisper'd  it  lov'd  the  gentle  visit  well — 
That  fair-fac'd  orb  alone  to  move  appear'd, 
That  zephyr  was  the  only  sound  they  heard. 
No  deep-mouth'd  hound  the  hunter's  haunt  betray'd, 
No  lights  upon  the  shore,  or  waters  play'd, 


THE  BACKWOODSMAN.  67 

No  loud  laugh  broke  upon  the  silent  air, 

To  tell  the  wand'rers  man  was  nestling  there, 

While  even  the  froward  babe  in  mother's  arms, 

Lull'd  by  the  scene  suppress'd  its  loud  alarms, 

And  yielding  to  that  moment's  tranquil  sway, 

Sunk  on  the  breast,  and  slept  its  rage  away. 

All,  all  was  still,  on  gliding  barque  and  shore, 

As  if  the  Earth  now  slept  to  wake  no  more; 

Life  seem'd  extinct,  as  when  the  World  first  smil'd, 

Ere  Adam  was  a  dupe,  or  Eve  beguil'd. 

In  such  a  scene  the  Soul  oft  walks  abroad, 
For  Silence  is  the  energy  of  God! 
Not  in  the  blackest  Tempest's  midnight  scowl, 
The  Earthquake's  rocking,  or  the  Whirlwind's  howl, 
Not  from  the  crashing  thunder-rifted  cloud, 
Does  His  immortal  mandate  speak  so  loud, 
As  when  the  silent  Night  around  her  throws 
Her  star-bespangled  mantle  of  repose; 
Thunder,  and  Whirlwind,  and  the  Earth's  dread  shake, 
The  selfish  thoughts  of  man  alone  awake; 
His  lips  may  prate  of  Heav'n,  but  all  his  fears 
Are  for  himself,  though  pious  he  appears, 


68  THE  BACKWOODSMAN. 

But  when  all  Nature  sleeps  in  tranquil  smiles, 
What  sweet  yet  lofty  thought  the  Soul  beguiles! 
There's  not  an  object  'neath  the  Moon's  bright  beam, 
There's  not  a  shadow  dark'ning  on  the  stream, 
There's  not  a  star  that  jewels  yonder  skies, 
Whose  bright  reflection  on  the  water  lies, 
That  does  not  in  the  lifted  mind  awake 
Thoughts  that  of  Love  and  Heav'n  alike  partake; 
While  all  its  newly  waken'd  feelings  prove, 
That  Love  is  Heaven,  and  God  the  Soul  of  Love. 
In  such  sweet  times  the  spirit  rambles  forth 
Beyond  the  precincts  of  this  grov'ling  Earth, 
Expatiates  in  a  brighter  world  than  this, 
And  plunging  in  the  Future's  dread  abyss, 
Proves  an  existence  separate,  and  refin'd, 
By  leaving  its  frail  tenement  behind. 
So  felt  our  Basil,  as  he  sat  the  while, 
Guiding  his  boat,  beneath  the  moonbeam's  smile. 
For  there  are  thoughts,  which  God  alike  has  giv'n, 
To  high  and  low — and  these  are  thoughts  of  Heav'n. 

Thus  gliding  down  the  gentle  river  tide, 
Three  days  and  nights,  at  length  our  party  spied 


THE  BACKWOODSMAN.  69 

The  lone  asylum  where  their  lot  was  cast, 

And  reach'd  the  long  expected  home  at  last. 

A  winding  stream,  that  came  from  Heav'n  knows  where, 

Far  in  the  woods,  join'd  fair  Ohio  there, 

And  at  their  silent  meeting  might  be  seen, 

A  little  level  land  all  fresh  and  green, 

On  which  those  strange  mysterious  works  appeared, 

By  unknown  hands,  in  unknown  ages  rear'd; 

Mounds,  such  as  rise  on  Euxine's  level  shore, 

The  lasting  tombs  of  nameless  names  of  yore, 

And  forts,  if  we  on  travellers'  lore  rely, 

With  oaks  of  ages  on  their  summits  high. 

These,  gliding  down  Ohio's  devious  maze, 

Now  catch  the  passing  stranger's  wand'ring  gaze, 

Puzzle  the  wise-heads  of  the  learned  schools, 

And  teach  philosophers  to  talk  like  fools. 

'Twas  here  they  landed  mid  the  desert  fair, 
Broke  up  their  boats,  and  form'd  a  shelter  there, 
Till  they  could  build  them  cabins  snug  and  warm, 
To  shield  from  Autumn's  rains,  and  Winter's  storm, 
Then,  for  the  first,  the  woodman's  echoing  stroke, 
The  holy  silence  of  the  forest  broke; 


70  THE  BACKWOODSMAN. 

Now  first  was  heard  the  crash  of  falling  trees, 

Yielding  to  other  power  than  howling  breeze: 

And  now  the  first  time  did  the  furrow  tear 

The  virgin  Earth,  and  lay  her  bosom  bare. 

All  now  was  bustle  in  that  calm  retreat, 

The  wants  of  Winter,  and  its  rage  to  meet, 

And  soon,  like  magic,  in  the  late  lone  wild, 

A  little  rustic  village  rose  and  smil'd. 

With  keen-edg'd  axe  some  warr'd  against  the  wood, 

And  girdled  trees,  that  ages  there  had  stood, 

While  trusty  rifle  close  beside  them  lies, 

To  guard  from  wily  Indian's  dread  surprise; 

Some  urg'd  the  plough  where'er  the  land  was  clear, 

And  some  went  forth  to  chase  the  half-tame  deer, 

That  look'd  them  in  the  face  with  wistful  ken, 

As  wond'ring  what  could  be  these  stranger  men. 

Women  and  children,  all  were  busy  here, 

To  meet  the  pressure  of  the  coming  year, 

A  long,  drear  Winter  now  before  them  lay, 

And  short  and  shorter  wax'd  each  passing  day. 

Soon  hazja.  Autumn  came — in  other  lands 
That  rich  rewards  the  labourer's  blister'd  hands; 


THE  BACKWOODSMAN. 

But  here  our  pilgrims  no  such  blessings  know, 
They  could  not  reap  where  they  did  never  sow. 
The  Summer's  lively  hue,  so  fresh  and  green, 
In  these  damp  forests,  now  no  more  was  seen, 
It  faded  every  day,  like  youth's  bright  bloom, 
And  other  tints  the  waning  woods  assume; 
The  yellow  aspin  rear'd  its  palsied  head, 
The  scarlet  maple  and  the  oak's  deep  red, 
With  here  and  there  a  sturdy  evergreen, 
Mingling  their  motley  foliage,  round  were  seen; 
In  dappled  livery,  Nature  now  was  clad, 
Like  bonny  Scot,  in  many-colour'd  plaid. 

The  seed  now  sown,  the  cabins  well  prepar'd, 
They  sat  them  down,  and  growling  Winter  dar'd 
For  hardy  Industry  need  never  fear 
The  roughest  changes  of  the  rolling  year, 
Give  it  but  health,  e'en  in  the  desert  wide, 
'Gainst  each  vicissitude  'twill  soon  provide, 
Breast  every  exigence,  nor  shrink  the  while, 
From  Nature's  frown,  but  meet  it  as  her  smile: 
But  beggary's  now  the  fashion  of  the  times, 
And  paupers  hither  flock  from  distant  climes; 


72  THE  BACKWOODSMAN. 

Thousands  of  brawny  rogues  unblushing  stand 

Whining,  and  lying,  cap  and  crutch  in  hand, 

Covered  with  dirt,  as  though  e'en  water  here 

They  cannot  buy,  forsooth — it  is  so  dear! 

Idle  as  worthless,  still  the  wretches  find 

Some  silly  dupes  to  imposition  blind, 

And  cheat  sweet  Charity  of  that  poor  meed, 

For  Age  and  Sickness  piously  decreed; 

Too  indolent  for  work  abroad  to  roam, 

They  lounge,  and  lye,  and  beg — and  steal  at  home, 

And  though  they  bring  pollution  to  our  shore, 

Lay  all  their  crimes  at  our  good  people's  door, 

While  honest  Industry  must  ever  strive 

To  keep  itself,  and  these  vile  rags  alive. 

Gradual  the  dappled  cloke  of  Autumn  fell, 
And  Winter  rav'd  through  wood  and  winding  dell, 
Silent  the  stream's  soft  sdothing  murmurs  were, 
And  still  the  myriads  of  the  peopled  air; 
The  trees  no  more  a  whispering  music  made, 
But  howling  blasts  roar'd  through  the  leafless  shade, 
Or,  if  it  fell  into  a  calm  severe, 
'Twas  only  to  give  place  to  sounds  more  drear. 


THE  BACKWOODSMAN. 

Oft  in  the  freezing  midnight's  dread  repose, 

The  gaunt  wolf's  wail,  quav'ring  afar  arose, 

And  oft  the  little  hamlet  they  surround, 

Rousing  the  sleepers  with  a  fearful  sound, 

That  as  upon  the  half-wak'd  ear  it  fell, 

Seem'd  murderous  Indian's  death-denouncing  yell. 

But  soon  they  ceas'd  these  midnight  foes  to  hear, 

For  use  can  conquer  ev'n  almighty  fear, 

And  those  who  live  in  dangers,  sleep  as  sound, 

In  sight  of  death,  ev'n  on  the  cold  bare  ground, 

As  though  on  curtain'd  beds  of  down  they  lay, 

And  snor'd  in  peace  the  livelong  night  away. 

Man  can  be  happy,  bide  he  where  he  may, 

If  health  and  freedom  smile  upon  his  way; 

But  he  who  seeks  it,  still  must  ever  find, 

If  e'er  he  find  it,  in  his  own  calm  mind— * 

Vainly  we  chase  it — if  it  be  not  there, 

>Tis  not  on  Earth— in  Heav'n— - -nor  any  where. 

Calm  were  the  wint'ry  days  our  pilgrims  knew, 
And  lightly  o'er  their  heads  the  moments  flew; 
At  eve  they  spent  their  little  social  hours, 
As  gay  as  though  they  bask'd  in  Eastern  bowers, 

H 


74  THE  BACKWOODSMAN. 

Or  in  the  racket  of  some  noisy  town, 

ToiPd  day  and  night  to  run  light  pleasure  down. 

Learn'd  Basil  now  his  leisure  time  employs, 

To  teach  his  blooming  girls,  and  growing  boys, 

Reading  and  writing,  and  each  simple  rule, 

That  he  had  learn'd,  while  young,  at  village  school; 

But  when  that  task  was  done,  round  evening  blaze 

The  good  man  talk'd  of  things  of  other  days — 

Sometimes  he  told  them  how,  in  good  time  past, 

Our  fathers  fought  for  freedom  to  the  last, 

The  march  of  tyranny  sev'n  years  withstood, 

And  bravely  won  the  price  of  toil  and  blood. 

Then  would  he  tell  of  souls  now  gone  to  rest, 

By  every  native  heart's  best  wishes,  blest: 

Of  virtuous  Greene,  whose  cherish'd  name  shall  be 

As  everlasting  as  thy  hills,  Santee, 

And  borne  on  Fame's  untir'd,  earth -circling  wings, 

Rise  pure  and  limpid  as  his  Eutaw  springs: 

Of  Marion,  by  his  country  not  half  known, 

Who  kept  a  war  alive,  himself  alone; 

And  when  the  prostrate  South  defenceless  lay 

To  foreign  oands,  and  homebred  foes  a  prey, 


THE  BACKWOODSMAN. 

Stili  nurs'd  the  fainting  spirit  of  the  state, 
And  bravely  tripp'd  the  heels  of  adverse  Fate; 
Still  watch'd  the  footsteps  of  the  plund'ring  foe, 
Who  thought  him  distant  till  he  felt  the  blow, 
And  hung  upon  his  flank,  or  straggling  rear, 
And  made  him  buy  each  inch  of  land  too  dear: 
Of  Franklin,  who  by  mind  alone  sustained, 
The  palm  of  Science,  and  of  Wisdom  gain'd, 
Whose  name  deep  rooted  in  this  grateful  land, 
Against  the  wiles  of  Envy  long  shall  stand; 
And  while  Oblivion's  wave,  urg'd  on  by  Time, 
Swallows  the  mighty  million,  stand  sublime. 
Thus  the  rough  torrent  sweeps  the  Earth  away, 
And  pilfers  something  from  her  every  day, 
While  the  steep  rock,  firm  seated  on  its  sides, 
Rests  calmly  there  and  all  its  force  derides; 
The  more  the  waters  sap  its  rooted  base, 
It  rises  still  in  stern  majestic  grace; 
Higher  its  brow  of  adamant  uprears, 
And  deeper  rooted  in  the  earth  appears. 

Then  would  he  turn  his  little  hearers  pale, 
With  many  a  melancholy  matron's  tale, 


76  THE  BACKWOODSMAN. 

Which  stately  Hist'ry  deems  beneath  her  pen— 
The  record  of  the  woes  of  nameless  men. 
He  told  of  hardships  stern,  and  perils  drear, 
That  met  our  soldiers  in  their  sad  career, 
How  from  their  comfortable  homes  they  came, 
To  help  their  country,  not  to  fight  for  fame; 
How  still  half  starved,  half  naked,  and  half  froze, 
On  the  sharp  earth,  or  ice-glaz'd  Winter  snows, 
Track'd  by  their  blood,  like  wounded  deer  they  rov'd, 
And  brav'd  all  hardships,  for  the  cause  they  lov'd; 
Ev'n  on  the  verge  of  Famine's  yawning  jaws, 
Not  one  betray 'd  his  suffering  Country's  cause, 
Not  one  deserted  to  the  conq'ring  band, 
Or  sold  his  comrades,  or  his  native  land: 
Still  to  their  glorious  leader  bravely  true, 
The  war's  vicissitudes  they  struggled  through, 
Sav'd  this  good  land,  and  when  the  tug  was  o'er, 
Begg'd  their  way  home,  at  every  scoundrel's  door. 

But  there  was  one,  aye  known  and  honour'd  well* 
Of  whom  our  Basil  lov'd  the  best  to  tell. 
O!  how  he  dwelt  upon  that  finish'd  mind, 
Which  left  all  ancient  patterns  far  behind; 


THE  BACKWOODSMAN. 

Whose  virtues  all  so  nicely  balanced  were, 
That  none  seem'd  very  great,  or  very  rare; 
Like  classic  temple  whose  proportions  meet 
In  such  true  harmony,  such  concord  sweet, 
It  oft  deceives  the  inexperienced  sight, 
That  measures  not  its  proud  superior  height; 
'Tis  not  a  part — it  is  the  matchless  whole— 
The  combination,  that  enchants  the  soul. 

O!  spotless,  blameless,  high  heroic  name, 

Heir  of  the  World's  best  gift,  unblemish'd  Fame! 

What  though  no  stately  sculptures  deck  thy  tomb, 

Or  blazon'd  'scutcheons  its  pale  vault  illume, 

The  freedom  which  thy  steady  virtues  gave, 

Is  the  best  monument  that  thou  canst  have; 

While  grateful  millions  consecrate  thy  name, 

Thou  need'st  no  tomb  to  prop  thy  deathless  fame. 

ngor  me — I  joy  that  he,  who  when  alive, 

'Gainst  empty  pageants  did  so  nobly  strive, 

When  dead,  reposes  by  his  parents'  side, 

Debas'd  by  no  vile  attributes  of  pride. 

I  love  the  simple  grave  unspoil'd  by  art, 

Of  him  whose  tomb  is  every  virtuous  heart! 

h2 


78  THE  BACKWOODSMAN. 

Proud  monuments  in  stately  pomp  that  rise, 
And  cheat  the  world  with  flattery  and  lies, 
May  give  distinction  to  the  artist's  name, 
And  consecrate  e'en  nothingness  to  fame; 
But  wheresoever  a  Washington  may  rest, 
There  Fame  shall  make  her  everlasting  nest; 
For  that  renown  the  one  from  tombs  receives, 
The  other  to  the  simplest  hillock  gives. 
No  mass  of  marble  towering  to  the  skies, 
Where  truth  inflated,  turns  to  nauseous  lies, 
No  pen  historic,  nor  the  fabling  lyre, 
Attun'd  to  flattery,  his  deeds  require: 
Look  in  his  Country's  face,  you'll  see  them  there! 
List  to  her  voice,  you'll  hear  them  in  the  air! 
No  need  of  pompous  epitaphs  to  tell, 
His  high-wrought  soul  has  bade  this  orb  farewell, 
For  when  from  Earth  retires  the  glorious  Sun, 
The  darken'd  World  proclaims  his  race  is  run. 

Often  as  Memory  chang'd  her  varying  glass 
To  melancholy  musings  they  would  pass, 
And  please  themselves,  that  in  some  future  day, 
They'd  visit  those  dear  friends  so  far  away, 


THE  BACKWOODSMAN.  79 

And  mid  their  wondering  kinsfolk  proudly  tell, 
What  dangers  they  had  fear'd,  and  what  befel. 
Right  pleas'd  to  think  they'd  see  that  home  again, 
The  present  moment  lost  its  keenest  pain; 
And  while  they  put  it  off  from  year  to  year, 
The  world  they  could  not  visit  sought  them  here, 
For  every  passing  Summer  hither  brought, 
Some  hardy  wight  who  independence  sought, 
And  many  a  distant  friend,  who  chanc'd  to  hear 
How  they  had  prosper'd,  came  and  join'd  them  here; 
Till,  in  good  time,  their  new  found  world  appeared, 
E'en  just  like  that  to  memory  long  endear'd. 
Thus  fond  delusive  Hope— thou  honest  cheat! 
Dost  ever  lure  us  on  with  promise  sweet; 
And,  when  the  dear  reality  is  fled, 
Set  us  to  chase  some  phantom  in  its  stead, 
Till  to  the  present  reconcil'd  at  last, 
We  pine  nor  for  the  future,  or  the  past, 
What  we  can't  hope  to  taste,  no  more  regret, 
And  what's  beyond  our  reach,  in  time  forget. 
The  present,  past,  and  future,  sooth  to  say, 
Within  each  other's  hands,  like  gamesters  play; 


80  THE  BACKWOODSMAN. 

When  the  dark  present  wears  no  charm  the  while, 
We  to  the  future  turn,  and  see  it  smile; 
And  when  the  future  desolate  appears, 
The  present  joy  with  full  fruition  cheers; 
While  when  they  both  with  gloom  are  overcast, 
We  fly  for  refuge  to  the  days  long  past, 
Muster  the  good  deeds  of  our  youthful  prime, 
And  light  Hope's  lamp  amid  the  wrecks  of  Time. 

Meanwhile,  more  prosperous  grew  each  good  man's  lot, 
Till  each  in  time  a  goodly  farm  had  got, 
For  their  wise  landlord  knew  his  interest  well, 
And  half  his  land  for  almost  nought  would  sell; 
Knowing  the  other  would  right  soon  repay 
The  half  that  he  had  almost  giv'n  away. 
Now  the  log  hut,  erst  haunt  of  sturdy  men, 
Degen'rate  lot!  became  the  porker's  pen, 
While  stately  fabricks  rose  on  every  side, 
The  good  man's  comfort,  and  the  good  dame's  pride; 
To  cultivated  fields,  the  forest  chang'd, 
Where  golden  harvests  wav'd,  and  cattle  rang'd; 
The  curling  smoke  amid  the  wilds  was  seen, 
The  village  church  now  whiten'd  on  the  green, 


THE  BACKWOODSMAN.  81 

And  by  its  side  arose  the  little  school, 
Where  rod  and  reason,  lusty  urchins  rule, 
Whose  loud  repeated  lessons  might  be  heard, 
Whene'er  along  the  road  a  wight  appeared. 

Thus  passed  the  time,  and  thus  amid  the  wild, 
A  dauntless  man,  became  each  blooming  child; 
Toil  brac'd  their  nerves,  and  dangers  made  them  brave, 
And  not  a  drop  of  blood  here  smack'd  of  slave; 
Their  hardy  labours  in  the  fields  were  plied, 
With  trusty  rifle  ever  at  their  side; 
Their  hours  of  sport  amid  the  woods  were  spent, 
Chasing  the  deer,  with  hound  of  trusty  scent, 
Or  warring  with  the  wolf,  and  scoundrel  bear, 
Whom  kindness  cannot  sooth,  nor  threatening  scare. 
All  round  they  saw  no  being  that  might  claim, 
A  rank  superior,  or  a  prouder  name, 
To  tread  the  mounting  spirit  to  the  earth, 
And  crush  the  soul  of  Freedom  in  its  birth; 
Each  was  a  man,  for  manhood's  stamp  he  bore, 
And  none  was  less  than  that,  and  none  was  more, 
In  sweet  according  harmony  was  join'd, 
The  active  body,  with  the  active  mind, 


82  THE  BACKWOODSMAN. 

The  spirit  that  will  break  Oppression's  chain, 
Yet  follow  like  a  lamb  in  Reason's  train. 

'Tis  true— yet  'tis  no  pity  that  'tis  true, 
Many  fine  things  they  neither  felt  nor  knew. 
Unlike  the  sons  of  Europe's  happier  clime, 
They  never  died  to  music's  melting  chime, 
Or  groan'd,  as  if  in  agonizing  pain, 
At  some  enervate,  whining,  sickly  strain; 
Nor  would  they  sell  their  heritage  of  rights, 
For  long  processions,  fetes,  and  pretty  sights, 
Or  barter  for  a  bauble,  or  a  feast, 
All  that  distinguishes  the  man  from  beast. 
With  them,  alas!  the  fairest  masterpiece, 
Of  beggar'd  Italy,  or  rifled  Greece, 
A  chisell'd  wonder,  or  a  thing  of  paint, 
A  marble  godhead,  or  a  canvass  saint, 
Were  poor  amends  for  cities  wrapt  in  flame, 
A  ruin'd  land  and  deep  dishonour'd  name; 
Nor  would  they  mourn  Apollo  sent  away, 
More  than  the  loss  of  Freedom's  glorious  day; 
Among  them  was  no  driv'ling  princely  race, 
Who'd  beggar  half  a  state,  to  buy  a  vase, 


THE  BACKWOODSMAN.  83 

Or  starve  a  province  nobly  to  reclaim, 
From  mother  Earth,  a  thing  without  a  name, 
Some  mutilated  trunk  decay'd  and  worn, 
Of  head  bereft,  of  legs  and  arms  all  shorn, 
Worthless,  except  to  puzzle  learned  brains, 
And  cause  a  world  of  most  laborious  pains, 
To  find  if  this  same  headless,  limbless  thing, 
A  worthless  godhead  was,  or  worthless  king. 

Not  such  were  these,  whose  story  I  unfold, 
Or  else  some  other  might  their  tale  have  told. 
No!  they  were  men  whose  minds  were  form'd  to  dare, 
Whose  bodies  fram'd  the  hardest  toils  to  bear, 
Men  who  whene'er  their  native  land's  to  save, 
Will  win  the  meed  or  find  a  glorious  grave. 
Of  such  rare  spirits  was  that  gallant  band, 
Who  'gainst  the  bloody  Indian  made  a  stand, 
Through  the  dark  pathless  woods  did  bravely  chase 
The  treacherous  warriors  to  their  hiding  place, 
Though  knowing  well  that  in  the  bloody  field, 
They  spare  no  soul,  of  all  that  fight  or  yield. 


84  THE  BACKWOODSMAN. 

O  rare  Kentucky!  gallant  Tennessee, 
And  young  Ohio,  we  are  bound  to  thee! 
Though  like  the  aged  patriarch's  fav'rite  son, 
The  younger  born,  a  glorious  race  ye've  run. 
Be  this  the  legend  on  your  crests  engrav'd, 
Like  Joseph  we  our  elder  brethren  sav'd. 
In  some  more  happy,  nor  far  distant  day, 
When  that  detested  poison  ebbs  away, 
That  floats  in  our  young  Country's  swelling  veins, 
And  spots  her  face  with  party  colour'd  stains, 
Chills  the  wild  throbbing  of  the  heart's  high  beat, 
And  cools  the  glowing  pulse's  gen'rous  heat, 
0!  then  some  bard  shall  frame  a  loftier  lay, 
Which  sung,  perchance,  in  some  far  distant  day, 
Along  Ohio's  tranquil,  silvery  tide, 
Will  many  a  bosom  swell  with  honest  pride, 
And  teach  to  myriad  mortals  yet  unborn, 
To  turn  on  haughty  Europe  scorn  for  scorn, 
That  second  Afric — robb'd  of  liberty, 
By  the  same  cheats  that  set  the  negro  free. 


THE 


BOOK  FOURTH. 


THE  BACKWOODSMAN. 


BOOK  IV. 


Thus  happily  sojourn'd  our  rural  band, 
Calm  in  the  bosom  of  their  native  land; 
Content,  yet  looking  onward  still  to  more, 
And  adding  every  year  to  last  year's  store, 
Some  comfort,  or  some  luxury  yet  behind, 
Still  gave  an  impulse  to  the  active  mind, 
And  kept  its  moving  current  bright  and  clear, 
By  soft  vicissitudes  of  hope  and  fear. 
The  story  of  Ambition's  wild  career, 
Like  some  far  travell'd  rumour  met  their  ear, 
And  when  a  monarch  fell,  or  kingdom  rose, 
In  sooth,  it  troubled  not  their  calm  repose; 
They  seem'd  beyond  the  reach  of  War's  dread  strife. 
And  half  the  ills  that  checker  human  life. 


88  THE  BACKWOODSMAN. 

But  Mis'ry  is  a  sure  and  stanch  bloodhound, 
That  tracks  the  pathless  Earth  till  man  be  found; 
The  World  seems  blithe  and  blessed  every  where, 
Till  Man  appears,  and  tempts  the  Devil  there, 
Then  the  gaunt  pack  of  suffering,  Sin  and  Shame, 
Come  yelping  on  to  hunt  their  fav'rite  game, 
To  lap  the  life-blood,  banquet  on  our  groans, 
And  break  our  hearts,  or  turn  them  into  stones. 
They  should  be  made  of  flint  to  stand  the  shock, 
Of  woes  that  cluster,  and  of  hopes  that  mock, 
For  Happiness  is  but  the  flash  that  wings 
The  tuneful  ball,  that  murders  while  it  sings; 
We,  like  the  miser,  hoard  our  little  store 
Of  worldly  bliss,  and  toil  to  make  it  more, 
View  with  delight  the  rich  and  sparkling  prize, 
And  hug  the  casket  where  the  jewel  lies; 
Sudden  the  plund'rer  comes — and  all  is  flown, 
Save  the  dark  hollow,  where  the  ruby  shone. 

Far  in  a  dismal  glen  whose  deep  recess, 
The  Sun's  life-giving  ray  did  never  bless, 
Beside  a  lone  and  melancholy  stream, 
That  never  sparkled  in  the  spriteiv  beam* 


THE  BACKWOODSMAN.  89 

Sever'd  from  all  his  copper-colour'd  race, 

A  moody  Indian  made  his  biding  place; 

Here  mid  green  carpets  of  dew  dripping  moss, 

And  solemn  pines,  that  lock'd  their  arms  across 

The  foam-crown'd  brook,  and  with  their  gloomy  shade 

An  everlasting  dusky  twilight  made, 

With  hurrying  steps,  like  maniac  oft  he  trod, 

And  curs'd  the  white-man,  and  the  white-man's  God. 

Once  the  proud  painted  chief  of  warriors  brave, 

Whose  bones  now  bleaching  lay  without  a  grave, 

A  thousand  red-men  own'd  his  savage  sway, 

And  followed  on  where'er  he  led  the  way, 

Rang'd  the  wide  forest  many  a  countless  mile, 

And  hail'd  him  lord  of  cruelty  and  wile — 

Now,  like  a  girdled  tree,  unleaf 'd  he  stood, 

The  only  relick  of  a  stately  wood; 

The  last  of  all  his  race — he  lived  alone, 

His  name,  his  being,  and  his  haunts  unknown, 

Amid  a  sunless  vegetation  here, 

Fungus,  and  mildew'd  rottenness  so  drear, 

He  nurs'd  his  spleen,  and  studied  day  and  night 

How  he  his  nation's  wrongs  might  best  requite, 

i2 


90  THE  BACKWOODSMAN. 

Tear  every  white -man's  offspring  limb  from  limb, 

And  do  to  them,  as  they  had  done  to  him; 

For  no  deep  casuist,  alas!  was  he, 

The  justice  of  the  white-man's  claims  to  see, 

Or  comprehend,  why  the  pale  slave  of  toil, 

Who  turns  to  gold  the  fruits  of  every  soil, 

A  better  claim  had  to  this  smiling  earth, 

Than  those  who  rang'd  it  from  their  nation's  birth. 

Oft  would  he  roam  the  pathless  woods  by  night, 

When  star  and  moon  refus'd  their  cheering  light, 

Invoke  the  shadows  of  his  fallen  race, 

That  howl  about  the  world  from  place  to  place,3 

Or  call  dark  spirits  from  their  dread  repose, 

To  sooth  his  vengeance  and  strike  down  his  foes, 

And  when  the  echoes  answer'd  loud  and  near, 

Would  ifticy  that  they  throng'd  around  him  here. 

The  passions  that  in  other  breasts  bear  sway, 

And  lead  the  race  of  man  a  different  way, 

He  never  knew,  or  if  he  e'er  had  known, 

Before  one  master  feeling  they  had  flown. 

The  love  of  woman,  glory,  or  of  gain, 

Ne'er  caus'd  a  pang,  or  sooth'd  an  hour  of  pain, 


THE  BACKWOODSMAN.  91 

All  were  condens'd  in  one  intense  desire, 

That  scorch'd  his  brain  and  heart  with  quenchless  fire; 

His  very  life  and  being  it  had  grown, 

He  liv'd,  he  breath'd,  in  that,  and  that  alone. 

Thus  long  time  brooding  o'er  one  bloody  theme, 
That  fill'd  his  daily  musings,  and  his  dream, 
His  brain  to  moody  madness  was  beguiPd, 
And  broke  into  a  chaos  dark  and  wild — 
Forsaken  haunts  unknown  to  the  clear  Heav'n, 
Caves  in  the  dripping  rocks  by  torrents  riv'n, 
At  eve  he  sought,  and  with  half-smother'd  breath, 
Woo'd  fell  Revenge,  and  hungry  white -ribb'd  Death. 
"  Hark!"  would  he  mutter,  "  every  thing  is  still, 
"  The  screech-owl,  wolf,  and  boding  whip-poor-will! 
"  Now  is  your  time— come  forth  I  prithee  now — 
"  Come  my  pale  darlings,  fan  my  burning  brow. 
"  If  in  the  air  ye  hover — blessed  things! — 
"  Come  like  the  raven  with  his  coal-black  wings; 
"  If  in  the  worthless,  man-encumber'd  earth, 
"  Like  forked  adders,  crawl  ye  hissing  forth; 
"  Come  with  an  apple  in  your  coiling  train, 
"  And  blast  these  ague-cheeks  yet  once  again; 


92  THE  BACKWOODSMAN. 

"  Or  if  beneath  the  Ocean's  mad'ning  foam, 

"  Ye  find  jour  dark  and  melancholy  home, 

"  Rise,  with  its  ugliest  monsters  in  your  train, 

"  And  give  me  vengeance  for  my  people  slain; 

"  So  shall  the  blue  detested  wave  that  bore, 

"  The  book-learn'd  fiend,  the  white -man  to  this  shore, 

"  With  tardy  justice  help  me  to  repay, 

"  The  wrongs  that  eat  my  very  heart  away," 

The  howling  storm  that  drives  the  happy  home, 
But  tempted  him  a  wider  range  to  roam, 
And  when  loud  thunder  rattled  in  his  ear, 
That  was  the  music  he  best  lov'd  to  hear; 
If  it  were  midnight,  he  would  wander  forth, 
The  loneliest  thing  that  crawPd  this  peopled  earth, 
And  while  the  half-starv'd  wolf  and  weil-cloth'd  bear, 
Fled  from  the  tempest  to  their  secret  lair, 
?Twas  his  delight  through  tangled  groves  to  stalk, 
And  mutter  to  himself  unjointed  talk, 
Or  climb  some  slippery  cliff  that  tower'd  on  high, 
To  mouth  the  thunder  rumbling  in  the  sky, 
Or  at  its  very  verge  on  tiptoe  stand, 
To  catch  the  nimble  lightning  in  his  hand, 


THE  BACKWOODSMAN. 

And  as  he  grasp'd  the  unsubstantial  air, 
Would  fancy  that  he  held  it  quivering  there, 
Then  with  delirious  laughter  backward  start, 
And  hurl  it  at  the  hated  white -man's  heart. 

At  last,  the  lone  enthusiast  believ'd, 
He  had  commission  from  his  God  received, 
The  remnant  of  his  fallen  race  to  save, 
And  drive  the  white-man  o'er  the  boundless  wave; 
Yet  often  the  wild  discord  of  his  brain, 
To  better  tune  awhile  would  come  again, 
And  then  his  pride,  or  policy  forbade, 
The  secret  of  his  mind  should  be  betray'd; 
So  half  impostor,  half  enthusiast  grown, 
Sometimes  the  dupe  of  others,  then  his  own, 
Cunning,  and  Frenzy,  separate  or  combined, 
Sway'd  the  wild  chaos  of  his  wav'ring  mind, 

Urg'd  by  the  fiend  that  tenanted  his  brain, 
He  sought  the  haunts  of  savage  man  again, 
Proclaimed  his  mission  wheresoe'er  he  came, 
And  challenged  holy  Prophet's  hallow'd  name. 


94  THE  BACKWOODSMAN. 

His  restless,  bloodshot  eye — thick  tangled  hair, 

Quick  hurrying  step,  and  wild  unearthly  air, 

The  eloquence  which  Frenzy  oft  inspires, 

That  moves  to  tears,  or  lights  consuming  fires 

Gain'd  proselytes  where'er  the  maniac  came, 

And  won  their  rev'rence,  and  a  prophet's  name; 

All  gaz'd  with  wonder  at  the  wizard  form, 

That  talk'd  with  spirits  in  the  midnight  storm. 

Taunt  not  the  Indian — ev'n  the  brightest  mind, 

By  learning  and  philosophy  refin'd, 

Trembles  and  vibrates,  like  the  aspin  leaf, 

'Twixt  fiery  zeal,  and  freezing  unbelief; 

As  fears  oppress,  or  Hope's  bright  beacon  shines, 

To  one  or  other  wayward  it  inclines, 

Grovels  at  Superstition's  altar  dire, 

And  lights  the  heretic's  consuming  fire, 

Or,  as  the  ebbing  fervour  backward  rolls, 

Denies  its  god,  and  murders  all  men's  souls, 

Sometimes  for  Gospel,  monkish  cant  receives, 

And  sometimes  doubts,  what  Wisdom's  self  believes. 

No  marvel  then,  the  Indian,  who  ne'er  knew 
Themes  of  philosophy,  or  false  or  true, 


THE  BACKWOODSMAN.  95 

Whose  mind  was  like  the  forest  that  he  rov'd, 

Dark,  gloomy,  rayless,  rugged,  unimprov'd, 

With  hatred  of  the  white-man's  race  inspired, 

Should  yield  his  head,  to  what  his  heart  desir'd. 

Restless  the  prophet  rov'd,  as  one  whose  mind, 

No  biding  place  on  earth,  was  doom'd  to  find, 

And  wheresoever  he  went,  his  words  of  flame, 

Rous'd  them  to  rage,  or  blanch  'd  their  cheeks  with  shame. 

He  told  them,  how  in  distant  ages  past, 

The  white-man  on  these  shores  his  anchor  cast, 

Where  countless  tribes  of  red -men  freely  reign'd, 

Not  one  of  all  whose  myriads  now  remain'd. 

In  wonder  first,  and  with  soft  pity  then, 

They  gaz'd  upon  these  strange,  pale-visag'd  men, 

Stretch'd  out  the  ever  ready  helping  hand, 

Hunted  them  game,  and  gave  away  their  land, 

With  fond  credulity  their  tales  believ'd, 

And  all  their  wants,  and  all  their  fears  relieved: 

How  in  a  little  while  th'  ungrateful  crew, 

Their  toils  about  the  simple  Indians  threw, 

Cheated  them  of  their  lands  with  fraud  and  lies, 

False,  fair  deceitful  words,  and  falser  eyes, 


96  THE  BACKWOODSMAN. 

Till  in  the  end,  they  learn'd  the  wretched  trade, 
And  their  own  brothers,  like  the  whites  betray 'd, 
Drank,  cheated,  swore  to  that  which  was  not  true, 
And  changed  with  every  changing  wind  that  blew, 
Renounced  their  ancient  gods  throughout  the  land 
For  other  creeds  they  could  not  understand, 
And  in  the  downhill  path,  at  length,  became 
Worthy  associates  in  the  Christian  name. 

*  Thus,"  would  he  rave,  "  debas'd  by  Christian  arts* 
"  Weakened  their  bodies,  and  corrupt  their  hearts, 
"  Tribe  after  tribe,  soon  found  a  timeless  grave, 
"Or  liv'd  to  be  the  white-man's  abject  slave, 
**  Lingered  amid  the  scorn  of  every  fool, 
"  And  lick'd  the  dust,  where  they  were  born  to  rule; 
"  Or  if  they  'scap'd  this  most  degen'rate  fate, 
"  Join'd  some  more  distant  tribes,  that  soon  or  late, 
*  Fell  like  the  rest,  or  driv'n  from  their  home, 
"  Far  from  their  fathers'  graves  were  doom'd  to  roam, 
"While  the  pale  white -man,  ever  in  their  rear, 
"  With  bloodstained  steps,  march'd  on  his  curs'd  career, 
"  Resolv'd,  too  sure,  ere  he  his  race  had  run, 
"  To  chase  them  ev'n  beyond  the  setting  Sun. 


THE  BACKWOODSMAN,  9T 

u  Now — now's  the  time  that  we  must  take  our  stand, 
Or  skulk  like  foxes  from  our  hunting  land; 
"  The  moment's  come — for  bloody  Discord  throws, 
*'  Her  flames  on  every  side  among  our  foes, 
«  For  gold,  or  hate,  or  some  of  those  curs'd  rights, 
**  That  cloke  the  wrongs  we  suffer  from  these  whites, 
"  The  spirits  tell  me  they  will  try  ere  long 
"  Which  has  the  right — that  is,  which  is  the  strong; 
"  Awake,  ye  red -men!  for  the  last,  last  time — 
"  Make  one  bold  stand  to  save  your  native  clime! 
"  Bury  the  calumet,  deep,  deep  in  earth, 
"  And  swear  by  Vengeance  ne'er  to  draw  it  forth, 
"  Till  not  a  soul  of  that  pale-visag'd  race 
"  Within  this  land  shall  show  his  frosty  face, 
"  Of  snow  or  ice  in  some  hard  winter  made, 
"And  blanch'd  in  one  eternal  midnight  shade; 
"  Paint  your  red  faces  with  a  thousand  stains, 
"  Till  not  a  lineament  of  man  remains; 
"  Look  like  the  fiends,  and  be  ye  what  you  seem, 
"  Nor  canting  mercy  for  a  virtue  deem; 
"  Swear  to  revenge  your  wrongs — then  deeply  swear, 
"  Not  one  of  all  the  white-man's  race  to  spare, 

K 


98  THE  B4CKW00DSMAN. 

"  E'en  though  the  wordless  babe  that  knows  no  guile, 

"  Should  look  you  in  the  face  with  that  same  smile, 

"  The  hypocrite,  his  ruthless  father,  wore, 

"  When  first  he  came  to  cheat  in  days  of  yore; 

"  These  are  young  wolves,  who  when  their  teeth  are  grown, 

"  Will  lap  our  blood,  and  gnaw  us  to  the  bone, 

"  Vainly  we  kill  the  root,  if  still  the  seed, 

"  Within  the  soil  is  left,  more  foes  to  breed," 

As  fires  new  lighted  in  the  dry  rank  grass, 
From  side  to  side  like  lazy  lightnings  pass, 
So  did  his  words  inspire  the  listening  train, 
Rouse  every  heart,  and  light  each  kindling  brain; 
The  Indian  blood  was  up,  and  well-a-day! 
Blood  only  can  that  boiling  spirit  lay. 
But  there  was  one  who  felt  within  his  breast, 
A  keener  thrill  of  vengeance  than  the  rest; 
A  youth  with  all  the  gravity  of  age, 
And  all  the  cunning  of  a  thoughtful  sage, 
One,  who  through  distant  tribes  rude  sway  maintain'd, 
And  o'er  their  loves  and  fears  despotic  reign'd. 
In  peace  no  passion  seem'd  to  warm  his  soul, 
In  war  his  passions  rag'd  without  control; 


THE  BACKWOODSMAN. 

■ 

Yet  oft,  when  in  calm  indolence  he'd  seem, 
'Twixt  sleep  and  waking  buried  in  some  dream, 
With  vacant  eye,  and  cold  unconscious  stare, 
Unknowing  what  he  thought,  or  how,  or  where, 
His  boiling  brain  was  whirling  all  the  while, 
With  desp'rate  plans  to  ruin  or  beguile; 
Schemes  of  deep  mischief  rankled  in  his  mind, 
And  hate  and  policy  were  there  combined 
In  one  great  plan  to  free  his  wand'ring  race, 
Or  give  them  death,  and  rid  them  of  disgrace; 
Deep  as  old  Ocean's  caves,  for  ever  dark, 
Within  his  bosom  lay  one  latent  spark, 
Till  that  was  touch'd,  he  seem'd  insensate  clay, 
When  it  was  touch'd  he  burst  like  fiend  away, 
And  scour'd  the  earth  for  victims  to  assuage 
His  fev'rish  bosom's  unrelenting  rage. 

That  spark  was  waken'd  in  his  bosom  now, 
And  play'd  in  lightnings  round  his  burning  brow, 
The  prophet's  words  his  soul  with  venom  filPd, 
And  his  rous'd  heart  with  keener  vengeance  thrill'd; 
With  joy  he  hail'd  the  maniac's  mad  career, 
And  half  beguil'd  by  Hope,  half  chill'd  with  fear, 


100  THE  BACKWOODSMAN. 

Sometimes  believ'd  the  madman  was  inspired, 
At  others,  fear'd  some  fiend  his  brain  had  fir'dj 
Still,  whether  prophet,  madman,  lyiave  or  fool, 
He  was  he  thought  a  most  convenient  tool, 
To  work  upon  the  dark  benighted  mind, 
With  rage  half  mad,  and  superstition  blind, 
And  make  it  to  his  towering  will  submit, 
By  right  divine,  or  Indian  holy  writ. 
9Tis  thus,  if  right  we  read  historic  page, 
Through  the  long  records  of  each  cheating  age^ 
We  find,  the  art  to  govern  mainly  lies 
In  throwing  dust  in  man's  deluded  eyes; 
The  less  they  see,  the  better  rulers  speed, 
For  babes,  the  docile  blind  may  freely  lead^ 
Not  by  superior  wit  the  statesman  rules, 
So  much  as  making  all  his  fellows  fools: 
This  our  young  Shawanoe  gathered  from  his  sire, 
And  well  he  fann'd  the  newly  lighted  fire, 
Pronounc'd  the  wandering  maniac's  mission  true. 
And  hotter  firebrands  mid  the  circle  threw, 
Till  ev'n  the  torpid  heart  of  wint'ry  age, 
Burst  its  thick  ice,  and  fir'd  with  headlong  rage* 


THE  BACKWOODSMAN.  101 

Forgot  its  tutelary  genius,  Fear, 

And  roll'd  away  in  Folly's  mad  career. 

t 

Next  morn  betimes,  ere  yet  the  Sun's  bright  beam, 

Gilded  the  woods,  or  play'd  upon  the  stream, 

Old  men,  young  warriors,  matrons,  children  came, 

To  call  upon  the  Spirit's  hallow'd  name, 

And  ask  an  effort  of  his  matchless  might, 

To  aid  them  in  one  last  decisive  fight. 

Mild  was  the  mellow  morning,  not  a  breeze 

Wak'd  the  deep  slumbers  of  the  lifeless  trees, 

Night's  prowling  train  had  silent  sneak'd  away, 

And  woodland  birds  not  yet  begun  their  lay; 

The  sky  was  one  pale  vault,  without  a  star 

Twinkling  amid  its  azure  fields  afar, 

Save  the  bright  star  of  morn,  that  seem'd  to  stay 

To  bid  good  morrow  to  the  god  of  day. 

The  wood  was  pil'd — the  glorious  Sun  arose, 

And  each  within  the  pyre  his  offering  throws; 

Something  with  which  they  most  regret  to  part, 

Some  relic  dearest  to  the  giver's  heart, 

To  show  their  pious  reverence  and  love 

To  that  Great  Spirit  thron'd  in  skies  above. 

k2 


102  THE  BACKWOODSMAN. 

The  pile  consumed,  a  reverend  gray-hair'd  band 
Advanced  within  the  circle  hand  in  hand, 
And  pour'd  to  Him  a  wild  and  simple  pray'r, 
Who  by  some  name  is  worshipped  every  where. 

"  Great  Spirit!  master  of  the  lives  of  all, 
"  Soul  of  the  universe,  on  thee  we  call! 
"  0!  thou  who  hold'st  the  reins  of  winds  and  storms, 
"  Master  of  visible  and  viewless  forms, 
"  Of  spirits  roving  in  earth,  air,  and  sea, 
"  Who  do  thy  bidding  wheresoe'er  they  be, 
"  Command  the  good  around  our  paths  to  stray, 
"  And  keep  the  evil  from  our  steps  away; 
"  Give  to  the  young  the  spirits  of  the  brave, 
«  Who  sought  for  liberty  and  found  a  grave; 
"  Inspire  the  old  with  wisdom  to  disclose 
es  The  means  to  rid  us  of  these  hated  foes; 
iCTell  us  in  dreams,  thou  lone  and  lofty  One, 
"  What  we  must  do,  or  what  must  leave  undone. 

"  Great  Spirit!  whom  all  Heav'n  and  Earth  proclaim 
'*  Lord  of  the  universe,  whatever  thy  name; 


THE  BACKWOODSMAN.  103 

"  Who  breath'st  in  every  thing  in  earth  or  air, 
"  That's  great  and  beautiful,  and  good  and  rare, 
"  Whose  unprescrib'd  divinity  pervades 
"  The  haunts  of  men,  and  gloomy  trackless  shades, 
"  Lives  in  all  things  we  do,  or  feel,  or  see, 

Thou  who  art  every  thing,  and  all  things  thee — ■ 
"  Great  Spirit!  hither  turn  thy  listening  ear! 
"  The  stifled  groans  of  anguish  thou  dost  hear, 
"  Are  from  thy  children,  'tis  a  nation  calls, 
"  By  thee  it  conquers,  or  by  thee  it  falls. 
"  Who  then  shall  light  for  thee  the  sacred  flame, 
"  Or  call  upon  thy  cold  unfeeling  name? 
"  The  Christian  God  were  better  far  than  thee, 
"  He  makes  his  children  triumph,  while  we  flee; 
"  To  him  if  conquered  we  our  vows  must  pay, 
"  Forsake  thine  altars,  and  disclaim  thy  sway-— 
"  Hear  us,  Great  Spirit!  whom  we  yet  adore, 
"  Or  save  us  now,  or  lose  us  evermore!59 

A  band  of  chafing  warriors  next  there  came, 
Who  danc'd  around  the  low  expiring  flame, 
With  threatening  gestures,  death  denouncing  eyes, 
Low  mutter'd  curses,  and  tremendous  cries. 


104  THE  BACKWOODSMAN. 

0!  bloody  were  the  deeds  each  warrior  sung, 

While  charm 'd  Attention  on  his  accents  hung; 

If  in  his  vagrant  life,  he  e'er  had  done 

A  deed  that  sweet  Humanity  would  shun, 

Scalp'd  a  young  babe,  or  tortur'd  a  poor  white, 

With  knives  and  fires,  and  shouted  with  delight; 

To  see  the  drops  fast  down  his  forehead  roll, 

And  hear  the  groans  that  left  his  very  soul, 

The  ruthless  crime  of  Heav'n  and  man  accurs'd, 

Was  now  in  song  triumphantly  rehears'd; 

Mute  admiration  held  the  listening  train, 

Each  long'd  to  act  the  bloody  scene  again, 

And  some  poor  trembling,  half-starv'd  captive  wretch, 

Upon  the  rack  of  lingering  torture  stretch, 

From  murder  with  ingenious  art  refrain, 

And  nurse  his  life  to  lengthen  out  his  pain. 

Thus  through  the  livelong  day  they  danc'd  and  sung, 

And  with  their  music  distant  woodlands  rung, 

The  very  wolves  with  this  loud  rant  were  scar'd, 

Nor  from  their  haunts  that  day  to  venture  dar'd; 

But  when  the  Sun  low  waning  tow'rd  the  West, 

Proclaimed  the  coming  hour  of  balmy  rest, 


THE  BACKWOODSMAN. 

The  weary,  wild,  tumultuous,  madden'd  throng, 
Howl'd  to  their  God,  the  warriors'  hairbrain'd  song 

f<  Take  heart — he  hears  us  in  yon  ruddy  skies, 
"  And  through  the  Sun  looks  with  approving  eyes! 
"  Behold,  how  bright  his  golden  circle  shines, 
"  The  willing  Spirit  to  our  wish  inclines! 
u  'Tis  He  that  sends  this  fair  and  sprightly  day, 
"  'Tis  his  sweet  smiles  that  on  the  waters  play; 
"  He  makes  the  springs  to  rise,  the  rivers  flow, 
"  The  thunders  rattle,  and  the  whirlwinds  blow, 
"  Wings  forth  the  nimble  lightning  with  his  arm, 
"  Scourges  the  earth,  or  shelters  it  from  harm — 
"  The  high,  the  powerful,  the  unknown  Great, 
"  Still  hears  our  pray'rs,  still  watches  o'er  our  fate; 
"  He  loves  our  tribe,  he  sees,  he  feels  our  woes, 
"  And  gives  us  vengeance,  on  our  ruthless  foes; 
"  Cheer  up  my  brothers!  we  shall  pay  them  yet, 
"  And  in  revenge,  our  wrongs  and  shames  forget. 
"  But  see!  he  leaves  us — his  bright  warming  Sun, 
"  Is  gone  away — 'tis  done,  aye  it  is  done — - 
"  Freedom  is  ours,  the  Spirit  tells  us  so, 
u  Wo  to  the  white -man — to  his  children  wo! 


■i 


THE 


BOOK  FIFTH. 


THE  BACKWOODSMAN. 


BOOK  V. 


Now  the  wide  wilderness  was  up  in  arms, 
And  the  lone  forests  quak'd  with  strange  alarms; 
The  war-whoop  quav'ring  loud,  and  shrill  and  drear, 
Echo'd  along  the  rivers  far  and  near; 
Each  hostile  tribe  its  former  rage  subdu'd, 
Bury'd  the  mem'ry  of  each  ancient  feud, 
And  various  passions  in  one  hate  combined, 
Bent  to  one  purpose  every  various  mind. 
The  hairbrain'd  Prophet,  whose  infuriate  zeal 
BoiPd  o'er  his  heart,  and  made  his  reason  reel* 
Amid  the  painted  ranks  like  maniac  flew, 
And  kept  alive  the  madness  of  the  crew, 
While  the  young  Shawanoe,  king  of  the  wood, 
And  foremost  of  the  warriors,  panting  stood, 


110  THE  BACKWOODSMAN. 

Eager  the  bloody  struggle  to  begin, 

And  take  the  chance,  alike  to  lose  or  win. 

One  else  was  busy  there — a  renegade, 
Who  first  his  own,  and  then  our  land  betray'd; 
One  of  those  wretches  Europe  sometimes  throws 
From  her  sick  stomach,  that  with  vice  overflows, 
To  show  corruption  far  beyond  our  reach, 
Sublimer  modes  of  villany  to  teach, 
And  prove,  by  demonstration  strong  and  clear, 
How  much  that  lofty  race  excels  us  here, 
By  sending  forth  examples  that  proclaim 
Her  ranker  turpitude,  and  deeper  shame. 

ExiPd  for  a  long  catalogue  of  crime, 
He  sought  a  home  in  this  devoted  clime, 
Where  sweet  Philanthropy,  as  is  the  vogue, 
Spreads  her  soft  lap  to  catch  each  falling  rogue, 
And  baby  Sympathy  is  grown  so  nice, 
It  pampers  Idleness  and  pities  Vice, 
Weeps  o'er  those  cruel  laws  devis'd  to  save 
The  honest  laborer  from  the  prowling  knave, 


THE  BACKWOODSMAN.  Ill 

As  if  Society  was  fram'd  alone 

For  kings  and  rogues,  by  turns  to  mount  the  throne, 

And  ride  the  world,  while  every  honest  fool, 

Labours  and  starves,  their  victim  or  their  tool, 

Hither  to  this  good  land,  this  modern  Rome, 

Where  Want  and  Exile  find  a  lib'ral  home, 

The  suffering  Patriot,  the  recreant  knave, 

Pow'r's  virtuous  victim,  and  Corruption's  slave. 

All  throng  alike,  and  whereso'er  they  stray, 

Meet  friends,  and  welcome,  on  their  weary  way, 

Hither  he  came— our  Western  air  to  taint, 

And  play  the  sinner  in  the  garb  of  saint. 

A  banish'd  Patriot — for  that's  the  name 

That  cheats  our  sympathy  and  hides  his  shame — 

A  persecuted  Exile,  who  but  he! 

A  martyr  at  the  shrine  of  Liberty, 

He  raised  his  voice  in  Freedom's  sacred  cause, 

At  hanging  rail'd,  and  curs'd  all  tyrant  laws, 

Denounc'd  the  freeborn  Will's  most  mild  restraint, 

And  Treason's  victim  call'd  a  suffering  saint, 

Deeming  that  land  by  tyrant  power  enchain'd, 

Where  those  stern  despots,  Law  and  Justice  reign'd—- 


II*  THE  BACKWOODSMAN. 

The  people  sanctioned  laws,  most  mild  behest, 

And  the  wild  impulse  of  a  tyrant's  breast, 

Are  but  the  same — if  they  should  curb  his  will* 

'Tis  tyranny,  and  hard  oppression  still. 

Cherish'd  and  pamper'd  here,  he  might  have  grown 

A  fair  exotic,  we  had  call'd  our  own; 

But  where  Corruption  takes  a  thriving  root, 

The  plant  is  soon  detected  by  its  fruit, 

And  kindness,  like  tlje  genial  warmth  of  Spring, 

That  gives  the  serpent  venom  to  his  sting, 

The  thorough  villain  wakes  to  bolder  deeds, 

And  in  his  heart  more  lusty  vipers  breeds; 

He  needs  no  tempter  to  enforce  his  will, 

Whose  heart  spontaneous,  ever  leans  to  ill. 

One  of  our  tyrant  laws  at  length  he  broke, 
And  to  escape  its  curs'd  oppressive  yoke, 
Fled  to  a  neighb'ring  province,  and  became 
An  instrument  of  England's  lasting  shame. 
Sent  as  a  tool  of  mischief  to  the  wild, 
The  Indian  tribes  to  ruin  he  beguil'd, 
Brib'd  them  to  deeds,  at  which  the  heart  recoils, 
And  drove  them  headlong  into  fatal  broils, 


THE  BACKWOODSMAN.  US 

With  those  whom  self-defence  forbids  to  show 

That  mercy  which  to  Ignorance  we  owe. 

As  years  revolv'd,  the  hardening  wretch  became 

The  Indians'  curse,  the  whiteman's  burning  shame; 

Half  christian,  and  half  savage,  he  combined 

Their  various  vices  in  his  various  mind; 

Learn'd  all  the  horrors  of  the  savage  crew, 

And  taught  them  crimes  which  yet  they  never  knew; 

Corrupted,  and  corrupting,  every  day 

Some  remnant  of  his  soul  he  threw  away; 

Cast,  one  by  one  the  virtues  of  his  race, 

While  not  one  savage  virtue  took  its  place; 

Till  all  the  vices  of  both  natures  join'd, 

Grew  in  the  monstrous  medly  of  his  mind. 

One  sole,  and  lonely  virtue  still  he  had, 

That  only  made  the  villain  doubly  bad; 

'Twas  courage — not  that  virtue  of  the  brave, 

That  lives  on  Fame,  and  conquers  still  to  save; 

But  a  blood-thirsty  instinct,  wild  and  rude, 

That  fear  and  clemency  alike  subdu'd, 

And  lull'd  the  only  conscience  villains  have, 

The  fear  of  death— the  reck'ning  of  the  grave. 

l2 


114  THE  BACKWOODSMAN. 

His  music  was  the  melody  of  moans, 

The  woman's  shriekings,  and  the  infant's  groans; 

The  sight  he  lov'd  was  writhing  agonies, 

For  other's  tortures  gave  his  bosom  ease, 

And  each  convulsive  agonizing  start, 

Thrill 'd  with  inhuman  triumph  through  his  heart. 

He  never  turn'd  upon  his  heel  to  save 

Or  mitigate  the  sufferings  of  the  brave, 

But  with  ingenious  art,  and  fiend -like  skill, 

Devis'd  new  modes,  a  longer  way  to  kill. 

This  bloody  envoy  with  commission  came 
To  add  fresh  fuel  to  the  rising  flame, 
To  proffer  aid,  with  gifts  the  chiefs  to  gain, 
Cheat  with  fair  promises  the  simple  train, 
And  lure  them  far  away,  to  join  once  more, 
Those  who  had  oft  betray'd  their  race  before. 
Now  through  the  irksome  forest's  twilight  gloom, 
Where  bees  ne'er  hum,3  or  honey 'd  flowrets  bloom, 
By  paths  unmark'd  by  all  but  Indian  eyes, 
And  nameless  streams,  in  nameless  lands  that  rise, 
Whose  banks  ne'er  echo'd  to  the  fowler's  gun, 
Whose  wave  ne'er  sparkled  in  the  Summer  sun, 


THE  BACKWOODSMAN.  115 

Strait  as  an  arrow,  from  their  own  sure  bow, 
Long  countless  miles  our  savage  warriors  go, 
Nor  ever  miss  the  track  that  leads  aright, 
Be  it  or  sunless  day,  or  starless  night. 
With  silent  haste,  and  light  elastic  tread, 
They  wander'd  like  dumb  shadows  of  the  dead, 
While  the  last  warriors  of  the  distant  rear, 
Guided  by  caution,  or  impelled  by  fear, 
Smooth  the  dry  leaves,  all  vestige  to  efface 
Of  the  light  footsteps  of  that  wily  race. 

So  rov'd  they,  and  so  reached  the  kindred  band, 
That  waited  for  them  in  the  desert  land; 
And  now — refreshing  spectacle! — was  seen, 
Within  the  solitary  woodland  green, 
By  the  keen  eye  of  Heav'n  that  pierc'd  the  shade, 
And  mark'd  the  union  by  Ambition  made— 
A  holy  league — devised  on  modern  plan, 
Betwixt  the  Pagan,  and  the  Christian  man, 
To  bring  the  tomahawk  and  scalping  knife, 
In  aid  of  mad  Ambition's  murd'rous  strife* 
Give  a  yet  bloodier  hue  to  War's  dread  face, 
With  one  more  blot  old  England's  records  grace, 


116  THE  BACKWOODSMAN. 

And  teach  the  Indian  race,  with  pious  care, 
New  modes  of  plunder — cruelties  more  rare. 

Accursed  union!  cruel,  bloody,  base- 
Shame  of  the  Briton — blot  on  all  our  race! 
Was  it  for  England,  of  her  glories  proud, 
To  back  her  cause,  with  such  a  murd'rous  crowd, 
To  fight — to  run  away— thus  hand  in  hand, 
With  such  a  howling,  scalping,  tort'ring  band? 
Was  this  the  way  her  piety  to  prove, 
Her  saint-like  charity,  and  Christian  love, 
By  sweet  communion  with  a  Pagan  crew, 
That  ne'er  one  impulse  of  soft  pity  knew? 
To  bring  the  savage  fiend,  that  never  spares 
The  speechless  innocent,  nor  snow-white  hairs, 
In  bloody  fellowship  in  wilds  to  live, 
With  those  whose  God  commands  them  to  forgive— 
Was  it  for  her — to  sink  her  ancient  fame 
In  such  an  ocean  of  eternal  shame? 

Think  not,  proud  island — high  as  is  thy  lot, 
These  deeds  of  thine  shall  ever  be  forgot, 


THE  BACKWOODSMAN.  117 

For  howsoe'er  thy  records  may  deceive, 
Here  unborn  millions  shall  the  tale  believe — 
Long  as  the  hours  shall  ply  their  ceaseless  pace, 
Thy  sons  shall  hear  their  fathers'  deep  disgrace, 
And  blush,  if  blush  they  can,  with  burning  shame, 
At  this  deep  blot  that  stains  the  Briton's  name, 
Within  the  doomsday -book  of  wrathful  Time, 
'Tis  writ  in  blood,  that  in  this  lonely  clime, 
Deep  in  the  gloomy  forest's  boundless  shade, 
For  deeds  that  blink  the  blessed  sunshine  made, 
Whence  dying  groans,  unheard,  unpity'd  rise, 
And  scarce  a  rumour  to  old  Europe  flies, 
Faith's  mighty  bulwark — battled  side  by  side 
With  yelling  fiends  that  law  and  Heav'n  deride, 
Saw  them  the  captive  with  slow  tortures  kill, 
And  could  have  sav'd  them,  but  had  not  the  will. 
O,  England!  thou  a  long  arrear  must  pay, 
When  comes  the  bloody,  bitter  reck'ning  day; 
The  hour  may  come — nay  it  will  come  in  time, 
When  thou  wilt  pay  for  this  detested  crime; 
Then  in  some  desp'rate  struggle  man  to  man, 
The  wrathful  mind  these  deeds  of  thine  shall  scan* 


118  THE  BACKWOODSMAN. 

And  with  a  noble  thirst  of  vengeance  fir'd, 
By  mem'ry  of  its  country's  wrongs  inspir'd, 
The  victors  noblest  attribute  will  show, 
And  teach  thee — how  to  spare  a  captive  foe. 

The  maniac  Prophet,  whose  infuriate  hate, 
Disdain'd  the  lagging  steps  of  War  to  wait, 
Set  forth  on  lonely  ramble  to  descry, 
If  yet,  perchance,  the  adverse  foe  was  nigh, 
Or  haply  free  from  dreary  War's  alarm, 
He  staid  at  home,  nor  dreain'd  of  coming  harm. 
Alone  he  hied  him — for  his  gloomy  soul, 
Sicken'd  at  fellowship,  and  scorn'd  control; 
His  humour  was  to  roam,  no  one  knew  where, 
Mutt'ring  and  murm'ring  to  the  lonely  air. 
With  cautious  step,  the  wily  Indian  went 
Like  prowling  thief  on  villanous  intent, 
Lay  on  his  face,  and  listened  to  the  breeze, 
Whose  whisper'd  greetings  woo'd  the  waving  tn 
And  if  an  acorn  fell,  he  quail 'd  with  fear, 
For  now  the  white-man's  dangerous  haunts  were 
Nearer,  and  nearer  still  the  Prophet  hied, 
And  now  the  curling  smoke  far  off  descry 'd, 


THE  BACKWOODSMAN.  119 

Above  the  woods  in  waving  volumes  rise, 
Mingling  its  lighter  tints  with  pale  blue  skies, 
A  little  nearer,  and  the  village  spire, 
Rose  every  moment  higher  yet  and  higher, 
Until,  at  last,  the  peaceful  hamlet  scene, 
Burst  on  his  view,  along  the  level  green; 
The  Sun's  last  rays  upon  the  spire  top  gleam'd, 
The  evening  purple  on  the  still  wave  beam'd, 
The  lazy  herds  tinkled  their  evening  bell, 
The  measur'd  oar  upon  the  river  fell, 
As  swift  the  light  canoe,  from  side  to  side, 
Flitting  like  Indian  barque  was  seen  to  glide, 
The  boatman  ty'd  his  boat  to  root  of  tree, 
And  sung,  or  whistled  there,  right  merrily — 
And  every  sound  upon  the  ear  that  broke, 
The  hour  of  rural  relaxation  spoke; 
Nothing  was  seen,  but  comfort  every  where, 
And  nothing  heard,  that  seem'd  the  voice  of  Care. 

Back  shrunk  the  madbrain'd  wand'rer  stung  with  spleen, 
And  sick'ning  at  this  peaceful  village  scene; 
It  minded  him  of  times  he  once  had  known, 
Ere  doom'd  to  wander  through  the  earth  alone, 


120  THE  BACKWOODSMAN. 

For  on  this  spot  he  once  had  reign'd  a  king, 

O'er  man  and  beast,  and  every  living  thing; 

In  this  fair  haunt,  from  boy  to  man  he  grew, 

And  tasted  all  the  bliss  the  savage  knew; 

Here  had  he  seen  his  people  happy  dwell, 

Here  had  they  fought,  were  conquered,  and  all  fell. 

A  flood  of  tenderness  rush'd  on  his  mind, 

And  for  one  moment  the  poor  wretch  grew  blind; 

A  thrill,  for  many,  and  many  a  year  unknown, 

Cut  through  his  heart,  though  harden'd  into  stone, 

A  tear,  the  only  one  that  e'er  had  stain'd 

His  manhood's  cheek,  unbrush'd  away  remain'd3 

And,  for  one  breath,  his  lone  and  wretched  lot, 

Was  in  the  mem'ry  of  the  past  forgot. 

But  'twas  a  moment  only  that  engag'd 

His  tender  thoughts — the  next  his  bosom  rag'd; 

Indignantly  he  brush 'd  the  tear  away, 

And  as  more  hotly  glows  the  Sun's  bright  ray, 

When  past  the  Summer  shower  that  soon  is  o'er. 

And  leaves  it  brighter  than  it  was  before, 

His  swelling  heart  with  keener  vengeance  burn'd, 

And  all  his  tenderness  to  fury  turn'd. 


THE  BACKWOODSMAN.  121 

a  Aye — rest  ye  safe  awhile'" — he  madly  cried; 
M  Bask  in  the  sunshine  on  my  river's  side, 
"  While  the  true  lord  of  wave  and  wood  and  soil, 
"  Skulks  from  his  home,  and  howls  and  starves  the  while. 
"  Sleep  soundly  yet,  ye  curs'd — devoted  train, 
*  Ere  long  ye'll  slumber  ne'er  to  wake  again, 
"  Or  wake  to  hear  the  death-denouncing  yell, 
"  Rouse  for  the  last  time,  with  its  echoing  swell, 
u  To  see  your  dwellings  wrapt  in  midnight  flames, 
"  Hear  helpless  babes,  and  wives  invoke  your  names, 
"  And  call  upon  the  Christian  God  in  vain^ 
"  To  be  their  safeguard,  yet,  yet  once  again. 
w  How  silent  all  around — how  mild  the  eve! 
(t  Farewell  awhile — a  little  while  I  leave 
"  These  gentle  haunts,  which  when  again  I  see, 
"  Wo  to  the  white-man — he'll  remember  me!" 

This  said,  he  turn'd  him  to  the  glowing  West, 
Where  day's  last  tints  upon  the  light  clouds  rest, 
And  turning,  saw  an  aged  pilgrim  stand, 
Beneath  an  oak,  with  rustic  staff  in  hand, 
Who  seem'd  e'en  like  that  day's  departing  sun, 
As  if  his  race  on  earth  were  almost  run. 

M 


122  THE  BACKWOODSMAN, 

Sudden  the  murderous  tomahawk  he  drew, 

And  wing'd  by  vengeance  on  his  victim  flew, 

But  as  he  look'd  upon  the  old  man's  face, 

There  was  a  mild,  and  melancholy  grace — 

A  fearless  resignation  so  divine, 

An  eye  that  so  forgivingly  did  shine, 

As  stopt  awhile  the  Prophet's  mad  career, 

And  made  him  pause  'twixt  reverence  and  fear. 

He  seem'd  like  patriarch  of  some  distant  age, 

Returned  awhile  to  linger  on  this  stage; 

Bald  was  his  brow — so  very  deadly  fair, 

As  if  no  drop  of  blood  now  mantled  there; 

A  few  white  hairs,  like  flaky  snow  unstain'd, 

The  reliques  of  a  century  remained, 

And  his  calm  eye,  as  in  a  mirror,  shewed 

The  mild  reflection  of  a  mind  subdu'd; 

No  boiling  passion  foam'd,  and  eddied  there, 

Av'rice  or  gluttony,  or  selfish  care, 

But  all  was  like  the  twilight's  peaceful  hue, 

When  gentle  skies  in  silence  shed  their  dew. 

The  Prophet  gaz'd  upon  the  bloodless  sage, 
And  reverenc'd  the  divinity  of  age; 


THE  BACKWOODSMAN.  123 

Were  he  an  infant  still  his  blood  should  flow, 

For  helpless  babes  to  sturdy  warriors  grow; 

But  time  can  ne'er  the  old  man's  strength  restore, 

Or  wake  the  sleeping  vigour  of  fourscore. 

"  Old  man!"  he  roughly  cried,  "  what  makes  ye  here, 

"  Dost  not  the  wolf  or  bloody  Indian  fear, 

u  For  bloody  is  the  word  the  whites  bestow, 

<c  On  those  who  fight,  the  only  way  they  know?" 

"  I  go,"  replied  the  gracious  aged  man, 
"  To  spend  the  remnant  of  my  life's  short  span, 
"In  preaching  truth  to  Nature's  erring  child, 
"  That  roams  in  darkness  through  the  desert  wild, 
"  The  Bible's  holy  eloquence  to  speak, 
"  And  teach  the  red-man,  our  true  God  to  seek." 

"  Your  God!  the  bitter  mockery  withhold — 
"Your  God!  you  have  no  other  god  than  gold! 
"  For  this," — the  maniac  cried, — "  for  this  alone, 
"  You  bow  before  your  Godhead's  gilded  throne; 
"  For  this  you  murder,  plunder,  cheat,  defame, 
"  With  false  aspersions  blast  your  brother's  name. 


124  THE  BACKWOODSMAN. 

"  Sell  mothers,  daughters,  nay,  your  very  wives, 

"  Barter  religion,  trade  in  human  lives, 

"  Break  Heaven's  high  mandates,  spurn  the  law's  control, 

"  And  stake  'gainst  money  an  immortal  soul! 

"  Come  not  to  our  lone  woods,  old  man,  I  say, 

"  But  bear  your  crazy  frame  some  other  way, 

"  And  ere  for  distant  converts  thus  you  roam, 

"  See  if  there's  nothing  left  to  do  at  home; 

«  There  if  thou  wilt,  thy  nursery  tales  unfold, 

"  Till  every  soul  fall  down  and  worship  gold — 

u  The  Saviour  of  thy  race  died  not  for  us, 

*  He  died  to  be  the  Indian's  lasting  curse." 

"  Mistaken  man!"— the  graybeard  mildly  cried; 
"  For  thee,  and  us,  alike  the  Saviour  died! 
"  Look — the  kind  Christian  whom  thou  would 'st  destroy, 
f  Shall  lead  thee  to  bright  paths  of  peace  and  joy, 
w  The  arts  of  life,  and  social  comforts  teach, 
"  And  happiness  beyond  thy  fancy's  reach; 
"  Show  thee  to  plough  the  yet  uncultur'd  field, 
"  And  reap  in  peace  whatever  prize  it  yield, 
"  Make  thy  dark  intellect  with  light  to  glow, 
"  And  taste  the  sweets  of  knowing  what  we  know, 


THE  BACKWOODSMAN.  125 

w  Give  present  comfort  here,  and  future  bliss 
"  In  a  far  lovelier  paradise  than  this, 
"  Make  thee  a  man  while  living,  and  when  dead 
"  An  angel,  in  the  realms  where  angels  tread." 

"  Accurs'd,"  exclaim'd  the  maniac,  "  be  thy  care-— 
w I  know  what  things  your  Christian  Indians  are! 
"  0!  I  have  seen  them  naked  and  forlorn, 
"  Of  every  attribute  of  manhood  shorn, 
"  Skulking  from  town  to  town,  a  worthless  race, 
"  Earning  the  wages  of  their  deep  disgrace, 
"  Shooting  for  liquor  with  the  self  same  bow, 
*  That  laid  the  red -man  of  the  forest  low, 
M  And  sunk  beneath  the  lowest  Christian  knave, 
"  Take  kicks  and  buffets  from  the  white -man's  slave; 
"  These  are  the  product  of  your  Christian  love, 
|  Men  while  on  earth,  and  angels  when  above! 
"  Now  what  are  we,  who  in  the  woodlands  reign, 
"  The  lords  of  all  the  skulking  forest  train, 
"  Who  through  long  trackless  wilds  pursue  the  deer, 
"  And  live  in  dangers  all  the  rolling  year? 
"  Are  we  not  men — who  know  no  other  trade, 

"  Than  war  and  hunting,  sports  for  warriors  made; 

m2 


126  THE  BACKWOODSMAN, 

"  Who  though  nor  guide  nor  compass  point  the  way, 
"  Track  beast  or  man,  where'er  they  chance  to  stray, 
"  Ev'n  though  the  white-man,  with  his  purblind  eyes, 
"  No  vestige  of  a  passing  footstep  spies? 
"  Who  tell  each  hour  of  day  or  pitchy  night, 
"  When  sun  and  twinkling  stars  deny  their  light, 
"  Fight  to  the  last,  and  when  at  length  overthrown, 
"  Tortures  endure,  and  die  without  a  groan? 
"  Tell  me,  wise  graybeard — those  that  do  these  things, 
Are  they  not  men,  and  worthy  to  be  kings?" 

"  True,"  cried  the  old  man,  "  ye  are  men,  I  know, 
"  Men  that  disgrace  their  Maker,  here  below; 
"  Whose  gods  are  imps  red  hot  from  scorching  Hell, 
"  Whose  paradise,  where  store  of  beavers  dwell; 
"  Whose  mercy  is  the  captive  wretch  to  tear, 
"  Whose  pride,  the  bloody  dripping  scalp  to  wear, 
*  To  howl  around  where  some  poor  victim  lies, 
"  Shriv'ling  in  fires,  and  by  slow  inches  dies. 
"  Alas!  the  ruthless  thing  that  never  spares, 
"  Is  not  a  man,  though  manhood's  form  he  wears, 
a  He  does  belie  the  mercy  of  sweet  Heav'n, 
"  And  damns  himself,  by  prayers  to  be  forgiv'n." 


THE  BACKWOODSMAN.  1£7 

*  And  dost  thou  prate  of  mercy!  O,  full  well, 
"  Of  Christian  mercies  can  our  Indians  tell! 
"  You  spar'd  their  lives,  to  drive  them  from  their  home, 
"  Like  scouting  beasts  in  distant  wilds  to  roam; 
**  You  did  not  kill  them,  like  a  generous  foe, 
"  And  end  their  sufferings  with  one  manly  blow; 
"  You  spar'd  them  for  long  exile,  and  disgrace, 
"  Spar'd  them  to  see  the  ruin  of  their  race, 

*  Spar'd  them  for  keener  tortures,  woes  more  dire 
"  Than  scalping-knife,  or  slow  consuming  fire; 

"  We  view  such  trifles  with  unflinching  eye, 
"  'Tis  nothing  for  a  warrior  thus  to  die; 
"  But  I — old  man,  if  thou  hadst  ten  times  died, 
"  Thou  ne'er  hadst  known  the  suff'rings  I  abide, 
"  That  shrivel  this  tough  heart  with  woes  so  keen, 
"  They  make  me  wish  that  I  had  never  been. 
f  Look! — if  the  waning  lamp  of  thine  old  eye 
"  Gives  light  enough  far  objects  to  descry — 
"  Look,  what  a  peaceful  scene,  how  mild,  how  fair, 
"  Bares  its  sweet  bosom  to  the  cooling  air! 

*  Canst  see  the  noiseless  wave  unruffled  glide 
"  Round  yonder  isle  that  parts  its  gentle  tide, 


'   128  THE  BACKWOODSMAN. 

"  Whose  fringed  shore  reflected  in  the  stream, 
"  Like  shadowy  land  of  souls,  far  off  does  seem? 
"  Dost  see  yon  moon,  like  sky-J£ung  Indian  bow, 
<x  Across  the  wave  a  line  of  radiance  throw, 
"  That  seems  a  silver  bridge,  perchance  to  guide 
*  The  wand'ring  soul  across  the  rippling  tide, 
"  To  that  fair  isle,  whose  soften'd  landscapes  show 
"  So  green  and  pleasant  in  the  wave  below? 

u  Think— hadst  thou  dwelt  in  such  a  smiling  land, 
f<  Cherish'd,  and  cherishing  a  brother  band, 
"  Not  one  of  whom  from  foe  did  ever  flee, 
"  Not  one  of  whom  but  would  have  died  for  thee — 
"  Think,  hadst  thou  tasted  all  the  pleasures  here, 
u  That  habit  and  long  uses  make  so  dear, 
"  All  other  modes  of  living  but  thine  own, 
"  All  other  happiness  to  thee  unknown, 
"  Still  following  up  the  paths  thy  fathers  trod, 
**  Still  worshipping  thy  fathers'  ancient  God— 
"  Think,  had  some  roving  band  of  red -men  came, 
"  And  wrapt  thy  dwellings  in  wide  wasting  flame, 
"  With  bloody  might  cleft  down  thy  helpless  race 
"  And  left  thee  without  friend  or  biding  place, 


THE  BACKWOODSMAN.  129  1 

"  Because  thou  didst  not  choose  to  roam  the  wild, 

"  And  live  the  life  so  dear  to  Nature's  child— 

"  Wouldst  thou — aye,  wouldst  thou  then  his  mercy  praise, 

"  That  he  did  lengthen  out  thy  doleful  days, 

w  And  curse  thee  with  a  load  of  worthless  life, 

"  Reft  of  thy  old  associates,  babes,  and  wife, 

n  Loathing  the  present  as  a  bitter  curse, 

"  Fearing  the  future,  that  still  threaten'd  worse, 

"  Yet  bearing  still  to  live,  in  hopes  one  day, 

"  The  bloody  debt  with  interest  to  repay? 

"  Such  was,  such  is,  my  lone  and  wretched  lot— 

"  But  what  of  that — in  sooth,  it  matters  not; 

"  I  cannot  write  my  wrongs,  nor  make  appeal 

"  To  those  who  watch  o'er  other  people's  weal, 

"  And  if  to  Heav'n  I  raise  the  suppliant  pray'r, 

"  And  ask  redress,  I  get  no  justice  there, 

"  For  as  ye  rule  on  earth,  so  in  the  skies 

"  Rules  your  great  God,  aiid  all  redress  denies* 

"  See!"  cried  he,  as  the  frenzy  caught  his  brain — 
"  How  their  white  bones  lie  bleaching  on  the  plain! 
"  Their  shadows  haunt  me  wheresoe'er  I  stray, 
*  Their  howling  shades  still  cross  my  fearful  way; 

I 


130  THE  BACKWOODSMAN. 

"  I  have  no  other  kindred  now  but  these, 

"  I  hear  no  other  music  in  the  breeze; 

"  They  call  upon  me  in  shrill  dismal  screams, 

&  They  haunt  my  waking  thoughts,  my  nightly  dreams; 

*  Whene'er  I  stretch  my  hand,  their  cold,  cold  clasp, 
"  I  feel  like  ice,  within  my  shrinking  grasp; 

"  With  shades  I  dwell,  they  haunt  me  every  where, 

"  And  howl  for  vengeance  in  the  midnight  air. 

"  Buried  within  this  gloomy  vault  alive, 

"  Vainly  to  quit  its  mildew'd  walls  I  strive, 

"  Condemned  with  worms  and  mouldering  bones  to  bide, 

?<  And  ghosts  that  chatter  as  before  they  died. 

«  Go— go  in  peace — ere  yet  thy  limbs  I  tear, 

"  And  cheat  with  half  a  meal,  some  half-starv'd  bear!" 

"  I  pity  thee — Heaven  knows  I  pity  thee, 
"  And  wish  to  Heav'n  such  things  might  never  be. 
"  But  learn  of  me,  thou  lone  and  wretched  man, 

*  'Tis  impious  the  ways  of  God  to  scan. 
"  For  so  it  is,  alas!  or  right  or  wrong, 

"  The  weak  are  ever  victims  of  the  strong; 
"  In  polish'd  states,  the  master  mind  presides, 
"  In  barb'rous  nations  force  of  arm  still  guides, 


THE  BACKWOODSMAN.  131 

u  Mind  in  the  one,  the  stoutest  nerves  obey, 

"  Force  in  the  other  holds  despotic  sway. 

?•  If  thou  wouldst  let  us,  we  would  be  thy  friends, 

u  And  for  thy  ancient  wrongs  make  rich  amends, 

"  From  long-remember'd  woes  thy  thoughts  beguile, 

"  And  teach  this  world  to  wear  its  sweetest  smile, 

"  By  pointing  all  thy  hopes  to  yonder  skies, 

"  Where  the  lost  bliss  of  every  mortal  lies; 

"  There  shall  you  find,  if  still  ye  seek  aright, 

"  The  baffling  Bliss,  and  fugitive  Delight, 

"  That  stopt  a  moment  with  their  laughing  train, 

"  Then  bade  good-bye,  and  never  call'd  again. 

"  O!  come  with  me!  thou  wild  bewilder'd  thing, 

"  Leave  vengeance  to  yon  sky-enthroned  King, 

"  That  better  knows  than  you,  to  spare  or  strike, 

"  And  punishes  the  wicked  all  alike; 

"  Here,  if  they  'scape,  still,  still  they  meet  their  doom, 

"  In  fires  that  never  quench,  and  ne'er  consume; 

«  Forgiving,  and  forgiv'  n,  thy  days  shall  glide 

"  Smoothly  and  brightly  as  yon  sparkling  tide; 

u  The  white-man  shall  thy  age's  weakness  bless, 

^The  red-men  cherish,  and  their  wrongs  redress, 


4 


132  THE  BACKWOODSMAN. 

"  Teach  them  to  tread  the  only  path  that  guides 
"  The  steps  of  man  where  Truth  and  Justice  bides, 
"  Give  them  rich  lands,  where  they  may  dwell  in  peace,, 
f  And  every  passing  year  their  stores  increase.9' 

"  Fair  promises!  but  canst  thou  wake  the  grave? 
"  They  have  no  lives  to  bless,  no  souls  to  save. 
"  Hast  thou  forgot,  or  dost  thou  mean  to  jeer? 
u  I  told  thee  that  I  had  no  kindred  here; 
"  And,  if  I  had,  think'st  thou  I  would  forego 
"  The  only  hope  that  lights  me  here  below, 
"  Sell  my  revenge,  forget  my  murder'd  tribe, 
"  And  cheat  my  kinsmen  for  a  worthless  bribe? 
"  Thy  memory  is  bad,  thou  dost  forget 
a  I  am  a  savage,  not  converted  yet — 
"  'Tis  for  the  white-man,  who  his  Maker  sold, 
"  To  sell  his  brothers  for  accursed  gold. 
"  Peace— peace,  thou  hoary  tempter  of  fourscore — 
"  Begone! — and  never  seek  these  woodlands  more; 
u  Away!" — he  cried,  with  frenzy -lightened  brow, 
«  Were  I  a  Christian  I  would  scalp  thee  now; 
"  Go  home,  and  lye  amid  thy  very  pray'rs, 
"  And  say  the  bloody  Indian  never  spares." 


THE  BACKWOODSMAN.  133 

This  said— he  darted  in  the  woods  amain, 
To  seek  his  warriors  of  the  wilds  again. 
The  aged  Pilgrim,  sighing,  turn'd  away, 
And  marvelPd  so  that  he  forgot  to  pray, 
That  men  were  born  with  such  a  stubborn  mind, 
And  hearts  so  hard,  and  eyes  so  wilful  blind. 


* 


THE 


BOOK  SIXTH. 


THE  BACKWOODSMAN. 

BOOK  VI. 


The  fairest  days  produce  the  thunder  storm, 
The  fairest  climes  the  earthquake's  wrecks  deform, 
The  brightest  hours  the  buoyant  spirit  knows, 
Too  oft  are  heralds  of  the  blackest  woes; 
Life's  but  a  froward  child,  that  now  appears 
All  dress'd  in  smiles,  anon  all  drown'd  in  tears, 
With  swift  vicissitudes  we  struggle  still, 
And  ill  is  lin'd  with  good,  and  good  with  ill. 
One  would  have  thought,  that  in  the  woods  at  least, 
Our  pilgrims  might  have  sat  at  Nature's  feast, 
Free  from  the  coil  of  War's  detested  strife, 
The  Christian  broadsword  and  the  Pagan  knife, 
And  all  the  ills  that  proud  Ambition  rains 
On  Europe's  villages,  and  peaceful  swains, 

N  2 


138  THE  BACKWOODSMAN. 

But  so  it  is,  with  mortals  one  and  all, 
Where'er  they  bide,  still  evil  will  befall; 
And  'tis  but  folly  in  the  wise  to  say, 
While  each  pursues  on  earth  a  different  way, 
As  chance  directs,  or  circumstance  decrees, 
His  sire,  his  mother,  or  himself  to  please, 
One  only  path  to  happiness  should  guide, 
And  all  the  others  lead  us  far  and  wide; 
Each  has  its  sources  of  peculiar  bliss, 
What  one  denies  in  that,  it  gives  in  this; 
Each  boasts  peculiar  good,  peculiar  ill, 
And,  strike  the  balance,  all  are  equal  still — 
In  the  poor  mite  of  human  bliss  below, 
Virtue  makes  all  the  difF'rence  that  we  know. 

The  Eagle  and  the  Lion  now  at  strife, 
Stak'd  in  the  bloody  struggle  life  for  life; 
On  land  our  country  bled  at  every  pore, 
At  sea  the  palm  of  victory  she  bore; 
On  land,  one  dastard  earn'd  a  load  of  shame, 
At  sea,  a  train  of  glorious  imps  of  fame 
Retrieved  their  country's  honour,  blow  by  blow, 
And  laid  a  thousand  years  of  glory  low. 


THE  BACKWOODSMAN.  139 

Here,  in  the  South,  a  band  of  plund'rers  rag'd, 
There,  yelling  fiends  infernal  warfare  wag'd, 
And  people  doubt,  ev'n  to  this  distant  day, 
Which  bore  the  palm  of  cruelty  away; 
Pity,  that  balms  the  wretch's  sorest  lot, 
One  never  knew — the  other  had  forgot. 

Could  men,  whose  eyes  first  saw  the  blessed  day, 
In  this  good  land,  at  home  like  women  stay, 
Plead  conscience  to  escape  the  coming  fight, 
And  skulk  behind  some  vile  pretence  of  right? 
There  have  been  such — oblivion  shield  their  name, 
Better  forgot,  their  story  and  their  shame. 
Who  would  not  battle  bravely,  heart  and  hand, 
In  any  cause  for  this  dear  buxom  land; 
O,  never  may  the  heartless  recreant  know 
The  joys  from  conscious  rectitude  that  flow; 
Nor  ever,  for  one  fleeting  moment,  prove, 
Man's  dear  respect,  or  woman's  dearer  love; 
Ne'er  may  he  hold  high  converse  with  the  brave, 
But  live  with  slaves,  and  be  himself  a  slave; 
Ne'er  may  he  know  the  sober  waking  bliss, 
Of  living  in  a  freeman's  home  like  this, 


140  THE  BACKWOODSMAN. 

The  poor  man's  long-sought,  new-found,  promised  land 

Where  gen'rous  Plenty,  with  a  lavish  hand, 

Pays  honest  Labour,  from  her  boundless  store, 

And  each  day  makes  him  richer  than  before. 

Ne'er  may  the  dastard  know  such  biding  place, 

Nor  such  a  country  stain  with  deep  disgrace; 

But  pine  on  abject  Afric's  scorching  sand, 

Or  banish 'd  to  old  Europe's  dotard  land, 

Grovel  beneath  some  tottering  tyrant's  throne, 

Nor  dare  to  call  his  worthless  soul  his  own — 

Or  live  at  home  to  know  a  fate  still  worse, 

The  gen'rous  soul's  most  bitter  biting  curse — 

Live  in  his  native  clime  a  wretch  abhorr'd, 

And  dead  his  name  descend  in  black  record, 

A  freeborn  slave,  who  would  not  lift  his  hand 

To  succour  his  own  suffering  native  land. 

Not  such  were  those  who  sojourn'd  in  the  wild, 
They  mourn'd,  or  joy'd,  as  Fortune  frown'd  or  smil'd; 
Though  distant  from  the  scene  of  stern  alarm, 
And  far  remov'd  from  War's  wide  spreading  harm, 
Still,  when  they  heard  of  vict'ries  on  the  wave, 
O'er  those  once  thought  the  bravest  of  the  brave, 


THE  BACKWOODSMAN. 

Or  ravages  on  some  defenceless  coast, 

By  the  mean  minions  of  a  lawless  host, 

They  long'd  to  share  the  victor's  glorious  toils, 

And  strip  the  plund'rer  of  the  poor  man's  spoils. 

At  length,  from  distant  quarters,  rumours  came, 
That  wak'd  the  smothered  embers  into  flame; 
The  Indian,  and  his  ally  in  their  rear, 
Rag'd  through  the  wilds  with  barbarous  career, 
And  stories  that  might  make  the  blood  run  cold, 
By  many  a  wretched  fugitive  were  told. 
Who  has  not  heard  of  Raisin's  dismal  tale, 
Who  has  not  listen'd  till  his  cheek  turn'd  pale, 
Who  e'er  will  cease  the  victims  to  regret, 
Who  can  forgive,  or  who  will  e'er  forget? 
Their  country,  their  own  safety — their  revenge 
Impell'd  them  on  these  butcheries  to  avenge, 
And  when  they  heard  the  West  was  up  in  arms, 
Peace  and  dear  home  lost  all  their  wonted  charms; 
The  vigorous  youth,  the  strong-knit  nervous  man, 
To  arms,  with  one  accord,  all  hurrying  ran, 
While  tearful  matrons,  sad,  yet  not  dismay'd, 
Sat  looking  on,  disdaining  to  dissuade, 


142  THE  BACKWOODSMAN. 

Or  with  unskilful  haste,  and  bustle  slow, 
And  look  that  aye  persuaded  not  to  go, 
Prepared  of  comforts,  all  the  little  store 
That  each  one  to  the  distant  warfare  bore. 
Pass  we^he  story  of  the  parting  day, 
When  ^orrow  claims  her  rights,  and  men  obey, 
Nor  tell  what  griefs  the  matron's  tears  reveal'd, 
Or  what  the  soldier's  manly  pride  conceal'd, 
As  thus  the  long-united  rural  train 
Parted,  perhaps,  to  never  meet  again. 

Now  might  be  seen  in  arms  a  sturdy  band, 
The  chivalry  of  our  bold  western  land, 
Not  steel-clad  knights,  but  men  with  hearts  of  steel, 
Not  such  as  dragons  slay,  and  ladies  steal, 
Who  righted  wrongs,  by  breaking  heads  and  laws, 
And  rais'd  their  arm,  or  with,  or  without  cause, 
Fought  for  pure  love,  or  follow'd  some  brave  chief, 
A  border  hero,  or  an  outlaw'd  thief; 
And  when  they  should  have  ta'en  their  country's  part, 
Hir'd  their  good  swords  to  pierce  her  to  the  heart. 
No — they  were  men,  whom  poets  seldom  name, 
Too  lowly  for  the  records  of  high  Fame, 


THE  BACKWOODSMAN.  143 

Whom  native  valour,  and  their  country's  good, 
Sent  forth  to  face  the  wild-men  of  the  wood. 
Kentucky — old  Virginia's  buxom  child, 
Muster'd  her  merry  hunters  for  the  wild; 
And  gallant  Tennessee,  join 'd  heart  and  hand,^ 
To  lend  her  help  to  free  the  bleeding  land, 
Revenge  the  murders  of  the  lone  frontier, 
And  make  the  butcher  buy  his  victim  dear. 

Glory  and  Danger  ever  are  allied, 
And  like  twin  eagles  tower  side  by  side; 
Rocky,  and  steep,  and  slippery  to  the  tread 
Is  the  rough  path  that  wins  the  mountain's  head, 
Yet  he  who  braves  the  dangers  of  the  way, 
At  every  step  attains  a  brighter  day, 
Each  moment  nears  the  pure  ethereal  skies, 
Each  moment  feels  his  mounting  spirit  rise, 
Till  gain'd  at  last,  the  proud  yet  dizzy  height, 
He  looks  around,  and  sees  a  world  in  sight. 
The  pure  unvapour'd  air  that  breathes  around, 
New  strings  his  nerves,  as  with  elastic  bound 
He  lightly  foots  the  mountain's  azure  head, 
While  far  below  inferior  mortals  tread, 


144  THE  BACKWOODSMAN. 

Then  sits  him  down  beneath  a  laurel's  shade, 
And  owns  his  painful  labours  all  o'erpaid. 
So  the  high  soul  that  lives  for  great  renown, 
And  pants  on  tiptoe  for  bright  Glory's  crown, 
Must  march  through  dangers,  wrestle  with  hard  toil, 
And  face  that  death  from  which  low  souls  recoil, 
Till  he  has  gain'd  the  meed  of  deathless  fame, 
And  made  himself  a  universal  name; 
Then  when  he  sits  aloft  upon  the  steep, 
And  sees  below  him  meaner  mortals  creep, 
Like  grovelling  reptiles  crawling  at  his  feet, 
Gazing  in  hope  his  lofty  smile  to  meet, 
Dangers  and  toils,  and  hardships  are  forgot, 
In  the  dear  splendours  of  his  glorious  lot. 

No  marvel  then,  that  as  we  look  around, 
Such  men  in  every  age  and  clime  are  found, 
Since  poets  praise,  and  meaner  scribes  record 
The  bloody  triumphs  of  the  conquering  sword, 
That  Terror's  awful  banner  high  unfurlM, 
And  made  a  desert  of  one  half  the  world. 
*Tis  easy  for  a  man  to  risk  his  life, 
When  panting  millions  watch  the  glorious  strife; 


THE  BACKWOODSMAN. 

If  he  prove  victor,  universal  Fame 

Trumpets  the  deed,  immortal  is  his  name; 

And  if  he  fall,  in  Glory's  arms  he  lies, 

Amid  a  blaze  of  admiration  dies, 

Like  shooting  star,  whose  most  resplendent  ray 

Beams  forth  when  from  her  orb  she  darts  away. 

But  there's  a  nobler  heroism  than  this, 
A  brighter  glory,  and  a  purer  bliss; 
'Tis  when  the  hardy  peasant,  without  name, 
Who  never  sought,  or  dream'd  of  winning  fame, 
Not  in  the  hope  of  glory,  or  of  gold — 
Not  in  the  hope  his  story  will  be  told 
lyt  lofty  rhyme,  or  high  historic  page, 
To  challenge  wonder  in  some  distant  age, 
Quits  all  the  dear  domestic  joys  of  life, 
Home,  harvest,  happiness,  and  honest  wife, 
To  worry  through  the  dismal  forest  shade 
For  treacherous  murders,  and  surprises  made, 
With  weary  watchfulness  his  way  pursue, 
Mid  dangers  ever  near,  yet  ne'er  in  view, 
And  there,  if  beaten,  bear  a  load  of  shame, 
If  victor,  destitute  alike  of  fame. 


146  THE  BACKWOODSMAN.. 

Or  if  in  distant  fight  obscurely  slain, 
Scalp'd,  and  unburied,  there  his  bones  remain, 
To  mould  and  mildew  in  the  various  air, 
E'en  like  the  beast,  that  crows  and  vultures  tear; 
If  taken,  still  a  harder  fate  he  bears, 
From  him  who  never  pities,  never  spares. 
In  long  protracted  tortures  to  expire, 
And  perish  in  the  slow  consuming  fire, 
Rather  than  sit  with  folded  arms  at  home, 
Prating  of  Athens,  Sparta,  and  proud  Rome, 
While  his  own  country  wants  his  nervous  hand 
To  chase  the  spoiler  from  the  suffering  land. 
These  are  the  warriors  that  my  homely  Muse 
The  heroes  of  her  lowly  tale  would  choose, 
And  haply,  if  this  rude  unpolish'd  lay 
To  other  times,  perchance,  might  find  its  way, 
O!  she  would  chronicle  each  humble  name, 
And  crown  it  with  a  wreath  of  honest  fame. 

There  are,  who  dream  man  is  a  dull  machine, 
Mov'd  like  a  puppet  in  the  mimic  scene, 
Rein'd  or  impelPd  by  Power's  resistless  force, 
That  wills  his  action,  and  prescribes  his  course, 


THE  BACKWOODSMAN.  147 

Alike  his  vigour,  and  the  same  his  skill, 
Whether  he  act  against,  or  with  his  will; 
As  if  the  noblest  impulse  cherish'd  here 
Were  but  the  slave  of  Power,  the  sport  of  Fear, 
And  that  best  boon  of  ever-bounteous  Heav'n, 
Our  guardian  reasoning  Will  alone  was  giv'n, 
To  strut  in  gyves,  or  sneak  in  leading-strings, 
And  truckle  to  a  race  of  booby  kings! 
5Tis  held  enlighten'd  in  these  times  to  say, 
Some  men  are  born  to  govern,  some  obey, 
One  to  play  hero,  in  the  World's  great  school, 
Whom  Fate  and  Nature  destin'd  for  a  fool, 
While  the  true  monarch,  with  the  master  mind, 
Skulks  in  his  train,  and  gnaws  his  chains  behind; 
To  curl  the  lip  with  most  incredulous  scorn, 
When  told  of  virtue  in  the  lowly  born, 
And  deem  it  fable  when  they  chance  to  read 
Of  noble  daring  in  the  peasant  breed. 

Is  it  a  fable — that  in  ancient  times, 
The  hardy  Goths  forsook  their  wint'ry  climes, 
Lur'd  by  the  hope  of  plunder,  or  beguiPd, 
By  fair  Italian  fields  that  gayly  smiPd, 


148  THE  BACKWOODSMAN. 

And  like  the  locust-flight  that  hides  the  Sun, 

With  famine  and  dismay  the  land  o'errun — 

Is  it  a  fable,  that  while  lordly  pride 

Stood  helplessly  to  view  the  carnage  wide, 

Or  skulk'd  away  to  some  secure  retreat, 

Trembling  the  stout  barbarian  band  to  meet, 

Or  refuge  in  its  treasons  vainly  sought, 

And  with  its  country,  its  own  safety  bought, 

The  tottering  state  alone  supported  stood, 

By  men  without  one  drop  of  noble  blood? 

Valerian,  Probus,  Claudius,  stern  and  brave, 

And  Diocletian,  offspring  of  a  slave! 

These  propp'd  the  falling  empire  of  the  world, 

And  bloody  vengeance  on  the  plund'rer  hurPd, 

Nor  sunk  proud  Rome,  while  hardy  peasants  sway'd, 

?Twas  the  blood-royal  that  the  land  betray'd. 

Is  it  a  fable — that  in  later  day, 
When  thrones,  and  vet'ran  armies  prostrate  lay, 
And  half  old  Europe's  chivalry  was  dead, 
The  other  half  to  neutral  climes  had  fled— 
When  the  proud  Phantom  of  this  trembling  world, 
With  unresisted  might  his  mandates  hurPd; 


THE  BACKWOODSMAN. 

When  nothing  seem'd  to  check  his  boundless  sway, 
And  nought  was  left  but  humbly  to  obey, 
The  peasant's,  and  the  peasant's  arm  alone, 
Upheld  each  state,  and  sav'd  each  tottering  throne? 
Is  it  a  fable,  that  the  landweer  rose, 
A  wall  of  hearts,  the  torrent  to  oppose? 
Is  it  a  fable,  ev'n  the  Spaniard  wak'd, 
And  for  a  tyrant  his  existence  stak'd, 
Struggled  with  generous  chivalry  to  save 
The  very  soil  in  which  he  liv'd  a  slave? 
It  is  alone  the  Peasant's  honest  hand, 
When  all  is  lost,  can  save  a  sinking  land; 
No  power  on  earth  a  nation  can  subdue, 
When  a  brave  people  to  themselves  are  true; 
It  may  o'errun,  may  heap  the  land  with  slain, 
May  spoil  its  fields,  but  never  can  retain. 

If  then  the  poor,  down -trodden,  patient  slave, 
Who  has  no  freedom  left,  to  lose  or  save, 
Will  for  a  choice  of  masters  stake  his  life, 
In  the  wild  turmoil  of  Ambition's  strife; 
Fight  for  a  worthless  king,  whose  d  nating  pride, 

His  gallant  feats  in  secret  will  deride, 

o  2  Thai  „ 


150  THE  BACKWOODSMAN. 

And  when  the  hour  of  pressing  danger's  o'er, 

Treat  him  still  worse  than  e'er  he  did  before, 

Recall  concessions  made  in  peril's  hour, 

That  check'd  the  gambols  of  his  lawless  power, 

And  while  the  wretched  dupe  the  cheat  bewails, 

Hang  him,  a  traitor,  if  the  rascal  rails— 

If  such  can  die  for  their  dear  native  land, 

What  may  we  not  expect  from  Freedom's  band, 

Who  strive — not  to  prop  up  a  sinking  throne, 

Rear'd  for  the  happiness  of  one  alone, 

Whose  sparkling  diamonds  are  the  peasant's  tears, 

Whose  pillars,  his  long  sufferings  and  his  fears, 

But  for  those  equal  rights,  kind  Heav'n  bestows, 

Which  each  one  feels,  and  cherishes,  and  knows; 

That  gen'rous  plenty  which  their  toil  repays, 

And  leaves  them  something  for  long  rainy  days; 

That  Liberty  in  every  age  and  clime, 

Idol  of  sages,  theme  of  bards  sublime, 

By  headltfftg^violence,  too  oft  misus'd, 

By  tyrants,  and  ifr^jqjjpons,  long  abus'd— 

That  cherub,  deem'd  an  unsubstantial  shade, 

Till  here,  confess'dJby  all,  her  home  she  made? 


THE  BACKWOODSMAN. 


151 


March!  was  the  word,  and  now  their  steps  they  guide, 
Through  tangled  ways  amid  the  forest  wide, 
With  none  to  hail  them,  silent  as  they  past 
Through  dismal  shades,  with  twilight  gloom  o'ercast, 
No  soul  to  speed  them  on  their  tedious  way, 
No  crowded  cities,  and  no  ladies  gay 
Pour'd  forth  in  gazing  thousands  to  admire, 
Their  splendid  equipage  and  gay  attire, 
Strew  the  sweet  products  of  the  vernal  year, 
Or  give  at  parting,  one  inspiring  cheer. 
The  nodding  plume  that  shades  the  brow  of  war, 
And  hides  the  deep  trench  of  the  warrior's  scar, 
The  gilded  gorget,  sparkling  in  the  sun, 
The  beamy  splendours  of  the  vet'ran's  gun, 
The  shoulder 'd  epaulette,  the  prancing  steed, 
The  flashing  sword,  that  does  the  bloody  deed, 
And  all  the  fun'ral  pomp  of  human  strife, 
That  makes  the  very  coward  scorn  his  life, 
And  the  seam'd  visage  of  rough  War  appear 
A  glorious  angel — all  was  a^en*4ie*re; 
'Twas  the  scarr'd  front  of  bloody  baleful  strife^ 
In  all  the  naked  lineaments  of  life. 


15£  THE  BACKWOODSMAN. 

No  rattling  drum  its  far -heard  music  made, 
No  piping  fife,  the  noiseless  march  betray'd; 
Each  step  they  take,  they  pause  with  watchful  care, 
The  forest  warriors  swift  and  wily  are, 
They  come  like  foxes,  like  gaunt  tigers  fight, 
And  when  they  flee  outstrip  the  pigeon's  flight; 
Silence,  and  Care  that  never  shuts  his  eyes, 
Alone  can  guard  against  their  quick  surprise. 
Thus  with  a  calm,  unostentatious  pride, 
Watchful  and  wearisome  our  warriors  hied, 
Sometimes  through  regions  of  far-spreading  mire, 
Sometimes  o'er  boundless  prairies  scorch'd  by  fire, 
Dead,  lifeless  seas,  where  wave  nor  voice  was  heard, 
And  not  a  welcome  tree  or  shrub  appeared; 
Nothing  alive,  save  some  dark  moving  mass, 
That  like  a  rolling  mist  far  off  would  pass, 
Now  gliding  tow'rd,  now  rolling  back  again, 
Athwart  the  bare  interminable  plain. 
This  to  the  soldier's  inexperienc'd  gaze, 
The  wandering  Indian's  devious  march  betrays, 
But  the  old  hunter  smiles,  for  well  he  knows 
'Tis  but  a  countless  herd  of  buffaloes. 


THE  BACKWOODSMAN. 

From  shacleless  levels,  where  the  Sun's  hot  raj 
PourM  on  their  heads  the  livelong  sultry  day, 
They  plungM  deep  in  the  boundless  forest  green, 
Where  Summer  Sun's  bright  ray  was  never  seen; 
Chill,  dreary,  lifeless,  wrapt  in  twilight  gloom, 
It  seem'd  as  they  were  lost  in  some  wide  tomb. 
How  silent  was  that  world  they  travelled  o'er, 
And  what  a  sad  solemnity  it  wore! 
The  matted  wood,  no  sportive  zephyr  stirr'd, 
And  not  a  solitary,  widow'd  bird 
Abided  in  the  deep  impervious  shade, 
Or  mid  the  boughs  his  mournful  music  made; 
No  butterfly,  or  busy  humming  bee, 
Or  pale,  unfragrant,  wild  flower  did  they  see; 
The  brood  of  sunshine  held  no  revels  there, 
Amid  the  ever-during  chilly  air. 
But  when  night  came,  and  broke  the  deep  repose 
That  Nature  o'er  the  woodland  day  aye  throws, 
Then  stalk'd  the  lean  wolves  from  their  living  grave 
By  gloom  and  silence  made  like  robber  brave, 
In  packs  of  thousands,  eager  for  the  prey 
They  snuff'd  at  distance  all  the  tedious  day; 


154  THE  BACKWOODSMAN. 

Around  the  waken 'd  camp  like  fiends  they  prowl, 
Quav'ring  gaunt  Hunger's  deep  carniv'rous  howl, 
And  bay  the  fires  that  glimmering  all  around, 
Fright  them  from  treading  the  forbidden  ground; 
Rough  bears,  asham'd  by  day  to  show  their  face, 
The  beast's  worst  libel,  and  the  wood's  disgrace, 
Crept  clumsily  around  the  waning  fires, 
And  grinn'd,  and  growl'd  their  horrible  desires; 
Their  eyes  like  burning  coals  amid  the  trees, 
Moving  about  the  watchful  soldier  sees, 
All  else  impervious  to  his  anxious  sight, 
In  the  deep  gloom  of  that  dark  forest  night; 
Yet  ev'n  these  moving  lights  his  aim  might  guide, 
And  many  a  rash  intruder  there  had  died, 
Had  they  not  fear'd  the  gun's  far  echoing  sound, 
Might  rouse  some  savage  rabble  prowling  round, 
Warning  them  that  the  adverse  foe  was  nigh, 
And  giving  notice,  or  to  fight  or  fly. 

Thus  wearily  they  trudg'd  a  trackless  way 
Through  shades  unwelcom'd  by  the  light  of  day, 
Until  at  last,  one  sober  eve,  they  came 
To  where  a  woodland  stream,  unknown  to  fame, 


THE  BACKWOODSMAN.  155 

Idly  meander'd  through  a  grassy  plain, 
Then  sought  oblivion  in  the  woods  again, 
And  murmur'd  forth,  as  'twere,  a  last  farewell 
To  that  sequestered  solitary  dell. 
Here,  on  its  opposite,  and  loftier  side, 
The  holy  brotherhood,  our  warriors  spied, 
Waiting,  it  seemed,  the  coming  fight  to  meet, 
And  our  bold  yeomen,  with  a  welcome  greet; 
The  Indian  shouted,  as  the  foe  drew  nigh, 
The  Briton  mark'd  them  with  contemptuous  eye; 
The  worse  for  him!  for  little  did  he  know 
What  marksmen  keen  were  in  that  homely  foe, 
Or  what  tough  hearts,  and  stout  determined  hands., 
Had  come  to  beard  him  in  these  lonely  lands. 

Light-footed  Eve,  with  noiseless  step  appeared, 
Like  balmy  dews  that  drop  from  Heav'n  unheard; 
The  skies  smiPd  sweetly  <  n  he  world  below, 
As  if  their  glorious  tenants  did  not  know 
What  fearful  sport  would  soon  pollute  the  scene, 
What  blood,  ere  long,  would  stain  that  virgin  green, 
Or  blithly  sporting  in  the  blessed  air, 
View'd  not  the  worms  that  crawl'd  and  fretted  there. 


156  THE  BACKWOODSMAN. 

The  adverse  bands,  the  deep  determin'd  foes* 

Forgot  their  ire  in  Nature's  calm  repose, 

And  tacitly  put  by  the  bloody  fray 

Until  the  dawning  of  another  day, 

As  loth  to  mar  the  scene  with  their  rude  strife, 

Or  lose,  perchance,  a  few  sweet  hours  of  life. 

Night  came — yet  left  behind  her  all  the  train 
Of  gentle  courtiers  that  adorn  her  reign; 
Silence,  that  leads  her  band  of  peaceful  hours, 
And  Sleep,  that  Care  and  wrinkled  Spleen  devours, 
That  while  the  counterfeit  of  death  it  seems, 
Gives  us  that  bliss  the  day  denies,  in  dreams, 
Far  distant  staid,  in  happier  scenes  and  climes, 
And  waited  patiently  for  better  times. 
On  either  side  the  river,  anxious  Care 
Kept  many  a  wakeful  eye  from  closing  there; 
Some  thought  upon  their  dear  homes  far  away, 
Some  fear'd  the  dangers  of  the  coming  day, 
And  watchful  captains  durst  not  wink  their  eyes, 
Fearful  of  adverse  Indians'  dread  surprise, 
For  shallow  was  the  ever  murmuring  wave, 
That  roll'd  between  them  and  the  silent  grave* 


THE  BACKWOODSMAN.  157 

A  thousand  fires  gleam'd  red  on  either  side, 
And  cast  a  threatening  glare  across  the  tide; 
Here — the  pale  white-man,  pond'ring  on  his  end, 
Clasping  his  rifle,  now  his  truest  friend, 
Sat  pensively,  and  thought  of  many  things, 
That  such  drear  times  to  his  remembrance  brings; 
Dear  absent  friends,  that  near  the  heart's  core  live, 
And  foes,  that  fear  now  prompts  him  to  forgive; 
And  many,  many  things  that  he  erewhile, 
Pass'd  carelessly,  or  with  indiff'rent  smile, 
Now  climb  the  weakened  barriers  of  the  heart, 
And  claim  one  last  farewell,  ere  yet  they  part. 
There — the  red  Indian,  dancing  round  his  fire, 
Broke  the  dread  silence  with  his  yellings  dire, 
And  seem'd  as  damned  imps  had  burst  their  chain., 
To  vex  and  mar  this  beauteous  world  again, 
Still  cherishing  their  old  earthborn  desires, 
And  howling,  in  their  own  eternal  fires; 
About  the  flame  that  cast  a  blood -red  glare, 
The  many-colour'd  daemons  caper'd  rare; 
Sometimes  clasp'd  hand  in  hand  they  whirPd  around, 

Like  winged  fiends,  that  hardly  touch  the  ground, 

p 


158  THE  BACKWOODSMAN. 

Without,  across,  amid  the  blaze  they  flew, 

As  if  no  pang  of  scorching  heat  they  knew; 

With  dismal  yell,  that  echoed  from  afar, 

They  danc'd  the  bloody  dance  of  death  and  war, 

And  sung,  or  howl'd,  that  deep  funereal  strain, 

Those  who  once  hear,  full  seldom  hear  again: 

"  'Tis  come!  the  day  our  brothers  to  avenge — 

"  'Tis  come!  the  precious  hour  of  sweet  revenge. 

c<  We'll  fight,  we'll  kill,  we'll  drive  them  in  the  flood* 

"  And  make  the  river  one  wide  stream  of  blood; 

"  Their  dripping  scalps  with  glorious  fury  tear, 

"  And  mid  our  fathers  in  proud  triumph  wear, 

"  Eat  up  their  hearts,  hang  their  white  flesh  to  dry, 

"  And  leave  their  bare  bones  in  the  sun  to  fry — 

"  'Tis  come — 'tis  past — 'tis  won,  the  bloody  field, 

"  Kill  those  that  fly,  and  torture  those  that  yield.2' 

So  wan'd  the  tedious,  dismal  night  away; 
But  with  the  first  faint  streaks  of  dawning  day, 
The  peaceful  Cherub,  that  had  haunted  here 
E'er  since  old  Time  began  his  young  career, 
Silent  and  sorrowful,  to  Heav'n  withdrew, 
And  bade  his  little  paradise  adieu; 


THE  BACKWOODSMAN.  159 

Yet  as  with  lingering  wing  he  upward  hied, 

Oft  did  he  look  behind,  and  sadly  sigh'd, 

To  think,  that  even  in  this  lonely  shade, 

For  peace  and  silent  contemplation  made, 

The  brazen  imp  of  strife  should  dare  intrude, 

And  vex  its  quiet  with  his  clamours  rude. 

Enough  of  war,  its  glories  and  its  ills, 

The  volume  of  the  past,  and  present  fills; 

The  his  fry  of  the  world  before  the  flood, 

And  since,  alas!  is  writ  in  tears  and  blood; 

But,  oh!  the  records  of  this  peevish  age, 

In  after  times,  when  men  unclasp  the  page, 

Enough  of  blood  and  pillaging  will  show, 

To  pall,  e'en  the  voluptuary  in  wo, 

The  sanguinary  lust  of  warriors  cool, 

Sicken  the  wise,  and  satiate  the  fool, 

Tire  out  dull  Patience  with  eternal  strife, 

And  make  us  loathe,  this  vile,  this  cut-throat  life. 

Why  then  should  I  luxuriate  in  gore, 
And  tell  of  horrors  often  told  before? 
How  Christian  groans,  and  Pagan's  fearful  yell, 
As  fled  the  one,  or  as  the  other  fell, 


166  THE  BACKWOODSMAN. 

Mingled  in  grating  discord  met  the  ear, 
And  made  the  stoutest  bosom  quake  with  fearr 
Why  should  I  free  my  Muse  from  her  restraint. 
And  with  unfeeling  coolness  pause,  to  paint 
The  quivering  limb,  the  bleeding  bosom  bare, 
The  dripping  head,  reft  of  its  honoured  hair, 
The  writhing  struggle  in  the  last  sad  hour, 
When  Death  and  fainting  Nature  try  their  power; 
The  wounded  victim,  now  bereft  alike, 
Of  strength  to  crawl,  or  energy  to  strike, 
Rolling  and  weltering  in  his  smoking  gore, 
By  friends  and  foes  alike  now  trampled  o'er, 
Unheeded  in  the  bloody,  busy  strife, 
Where  each  man  fought  to  save,  or  win  a  lifer 
Why  should  I — but  enough,  alas!  and  more — 
We  are  no  vampyres  thus  to  live  on  gore; 
Man 's  novt  a  wolf,  o'er  carnag'd  fields  to  prowl, 
And  snuff  the  scent  of  blood,  and  lap,  and  howl; 
Nor  vulture  hov'ring  in  the  blessed  air, 
Watching,  the  dying  victim's  heart  to  tear, 
That  he  should  thus  delight  in  blood  and  strife, 
And  hang  with  rapture  o'er  the  woes  of  life. 


THE  BACKWOODSMAN. 

Not  such  the  scenes  dear  to  my  humble  Muse, 
Not  such  the  themes  that  she  delights  to  choose! 
She  loves  to  linger  through  the  livelong  day 
Plucking  each  wild  flower,  blooming  on  her  way, 
To  stop  where'er  she  list,  and  gaze  around, 
Where  winding  stream,  or  past'ral  vale  is  found, 
Chase  the  wild  butterfly  on  vagrant  wing, 
And  haunt  cool  shades,  where  buxom  warblers  sing 
Or  gaze  upon  the  moon,  and  starry -lights, 
And  lose  herself  in  wild  and  wayward  flights, 
Among  the  unmapped  regions  of  the  air, 
Doffing  each  grov'ling  thought,  and  sordid  care; 
There  track  the  milky-way  across  the  sky, 
Through  which  aloft  the  souls  of  heroes  fly, 
Reach  the  bright  regions  of  eternal  day 
And  shed  a  glorious  lustre  on  their  way. 

Thrice  was  the  savage  driven  from  the  field, 

Thrice  he  return'd,  disdaining  still  to  yield; 

The  prophet  seem'd  by  madness'  self  enslav'd, 

And  through  the  fight  like  maniac  yell'd  and  rav'd, 

Invok'd  the  Indian  spirits  to  his  aid, 

And  curs'd  the  coward  who  his  god  betray'd, 
*    p  2 


162  THE  BACKWOODSMAN. 

Adjur'd,  reproach'd,  and  threatened  and  besought, 

Like  prophet  preach'd,  and  like  a  hero  fought, 

Till  with  deep  wounds  all  seam'd,  and  drench'd  in  gore, 

He  fainting  sunk,  and  yelPd  and  fought  no  more. 

That  moment  every  savage  warrior  quaiPd, 

And  e'en  the  stoutest  heart  its  master  faiPd; 

Dropping  their  arms,  they  slowly  left  the  field, 

Too  hopeless  now  to  fight,  too  proud  to  yield, 

And  though  our  soldiers,  hung  upon  their  rear, 

And  mow'd  them  like  the  ripen'd  harvest  ear, 

They  turn'd  them  not,  but  kept  their  wonted  pace, 

With  dangling  arms,  and  melancholy  grace — 

As  men,  who  did  not  think  it  worth  the  strife, 

To  save  the  remnant  of  a  worthless  life. 

Night  came,  while  our  brave  yeomen  still  pursu'd 
The  flying.Briton  through  the  pathless  wood, 
The  busy  scene,  was  now  but  one  wide  grave, 
Strew'd  with  the  yet  warm  corses  of  the  brave. 
With  faces  turn'd  to  heav'n  all  deadly  white, 
In  the  pale  starry  lustre  of  that  night. 
Here  lay,  defrauded  of  his  dear-bought  fame, 
A  gray -beard  soldier,  without  life  or  name; 


THE  BACKWOODSMAN. 

Sold  by  his  needy  prince  perchance  to  fight, 
Just  as  it  happened,  for  the  wrong,  or  right. 
His  pipe  that  still  adorn'd  its  wonted  place, 
And  light  blue  eyes,  proclaimed  the  German  race; 
But  who  he  was,  or  what,  or  whence,  or  where, 
Nobody  knew  in  sooth,  and  none  did  care; 
By  parents,  friends,  and  playmates  long  forgot, 
No  tear  bewail'd  his  lone  and  wretched  lot. 
Yet  'tis  the  same  belike,  to  him  that 's  dead, 
Who  mourns  his  fate,  or  where  he  rests  his  head: 
Cold  on  his  breast  lay  stretched  a  rawbon'd  man, 
Whose  blood  in  friendly  current  mingling  ran; 
Born  in  far  distant  climes,  fn  death  they  join'd, 
And  like  two  brothers  their  stout  arms  entwin'd; 
For  sweet  it  is,  in  the  last  pang  of  death, 
Even  in  the  stranger's  arms  to  yield  our  breath, 
Rather  than  die  abandoned  and  alone, 
With  none  to  catch  the  last  expiring  groan. 
What  did  he  here — why  leave  old  Scotland's  hills, 
Pure  mountain  air,  and  purer  crystal  rills, 
Dear  to  his  heart  by  every  tender  tie, 
To  seek  the  western  woodland  shades  and  die, 


164  THE  BACKWOODSMAN. 

Grappling  with  those  who  never  wish'd  him  ill, 
Who  long  have  lov'd,  and  love  his  country  still? 

Yes,  rugged  Scotia! — bruit  us  as  you  may, 
We  love  thy  music,  and  thy  melting  lay; 
The  echoes  of  our  country  know  them  well, 
And  chant  by  heart  the  soft  bewitching  spell — 
There's  not  a  lonely  seat  where  maids  retire, 
To  nurse  the  fluttering  flame  of  young  desire, 
To  dream,  and  hope,  and  wish  and  fear  the  white, 
The  long  and  listless  evening  to  beguile, 
But  at  the  sober  twilight's  dewy  hour, 
When  all  the  gentler  feelings  pant  for  power, 
Has  thrill'd  respondent  to  thy  melting  strain, 
Dear  to  the  courtier,  scholar,  bard,  and  swain; 
There's  not  a  voice  in  this  new  world,  but  loves 
To  warblevScotia's  tunes,  in  vales  and  groves; 
Nor  breathes  the  mortal  in  this  western  sphere, 
That  does  not  hold  her  Burns  and  Campbell  dear, 
And  owe  to  their  bewitching  minstrel  power, 
The  charm  that  sweeten'd  many  a  weary  hour. 

A  little  onward,  lo!  a  strapping  blade 
Flat  on  his  back,  beneath  yon  elm  is  laid: 


THE  BACKWOODSMAN. 

I  know  him  well,  a  lone  and  sad  exile, 
From  his  lost  Paradise,  green  Erin's  Isle; 
Hither  he  came,  but  sore  against  his  will, 
To  murder  those,  to  whom  he  wish'd  no  ill, 
And  when  he  came,  in  sooth  he  hardly  knew 
What  brought  him  here,  or  what  he  had  to  do — 
Until  he  fell,  and  with  his  latest  sigh, 
Utter'd,  "  I  know  it  now — I  came  to  die." 
Beside  him  lay  an  Indian,  stript  half  bare, 
With  one  hand  twisted  in  a  whiteman's  hair, 
While  still  the  other  grasp'dthe  scalping  knife, 
Yet  smoking  with  the  warmth  of  recent  life. 
And  near  the  Indian  sprawl'd  a  lusty  lad, 
In  homespun  coat,  and  linen  trowsers  clad, 
Whose  head  bereft  of  half  its  flaxen  hair, 
Lay  reeking  with  the  skull  exposed  and  bare. 
This  luckless  lad,  though  but  a  village  boy — 
Was  an  old  father's  pride,  a  mother's  joy — 
And  when  they  heard  their  only  son  was  slain, 
'Tis  said  they  ne'er  held  up  their  heads  again. 
Full  many  other  nameless  forms  lay  here, 
Doubtless,  to  some  far  aching  bosom  dear, 


166  THE  BACKWOODSMAN. 

Some  maid  betroth'd,  some  parent,  some  old  friend, 
Who  many  a  year  lamented  their  sad  end, 
And  added  to  that  mighty  sum  of  wo, 
We  pay  as  tribute  to  this  world  below. 

Ambition— parent  of  tremendous  War, 
Tremble,  for  thou  hast  much  to  answer  for! 
What  though  life  be,  a  very  worthless  boon, 
And  bootless  whether  dolPd  or  late,  or  soon, 
Source  of  small  good,  and  mighty  ills  below, 
Of  shortliv'd  happiness,  and  lasting  wo, 
To  others  useless,  to  ourselves  a  curse, 
To-day  a  pest,  to-morrow  something  worse, 
Yet,  since  we  hold  the  poor  possession  dear, 
And  hug  it  as  our  choicest  blessing  here, 
'Tis  cruel  thus  to  snap  the  thread  of  life, 
And  sweep'  as  from  this  much-lov'd  scene  of  strife, 
This  cheating  world,  this  weary  vale  of  tears, 
Which  even  suffering  to  our  heart  endears, 
Just  as  the  mother  loves  that  child  the  best, 
That  gives  most  pain  to  her  maternal  breast. 

All  now  is  silent,  in  the  scene  so  lone, 
Save  ever  and  anon  a  feeble  moan, 


THE  BACKWOODSMAN.  167 

That  at  each  repetition  dies  away, 

Like  the  last  echoes  of  some  plaintive  lay. 

The  watchful  wolf  that  hears  the  welcome  sound, 

Lur'd  by  the  signal,  prowls  the  field  around, 

Licking  the  earth,  and  yelling  forth  the  while, 

His  horrid  joy  at  such  a  glorious  spoil; 

Sad  music  to  the  dying  victim's  ear, 

Whose  fainting  heart  still  throbs  such  notes  to  hear* 

What  ghastly  spectre,  near  yon  heap  of  slain, 

Wak'd  by  the  music,  comes  to  life  again, 

With  desp'rate  effort  bravely  seeks  to  rise,, 

Then  sinks  in  silence,  and  in  silence  dies? 

It  is  the  maniac  Prophet! — lo,  once  more 

He  strives  to  rise,  but  falls  e'en  as  before, 

His  waning  strength  that  heart  no  more  sustains, 

And  drop  by  drop  the  life  blood  slowly  drains. 

But  see!  supported  by  that  groaning  wretch, 

I  see  him  toward  the  heav'ns  his  red  arm  stretch, 

And  hark!  his  last  words  tremble  on  mine  ear, 

Just  faintly  heard,  amid  the  silence  drear. 

"  'Tis  past — no  more  I  hail  the  rising  sun — 
t2  'Tis  past — and  yet  the  work  is  left  undone! 


168  THE  BACKWOODSMAN. 

*  The  white  man  triumphs,  the  poor  Indian  bleeds, 
"  The  good  cause  suffers,  and  the  bad  succeeds. 

"  Yet  how  yon  heavens  do  smile,  as  if  in  scorn 

"  Of  wretched  man,  from  life  and  kindred  torn, 

"  As  if  they  car'd  not  for  the  right  or  wrong, 

"  Or  sided  ever  with  the  righteous  strong. 

"  'Twas  always  thus — for  I  remember  well, 

"  Long  time  ago,  when  my  brave  nation  fell, 

"  No  signs  appear'd  that  those  who  dwell  above, 

r<  For  one  or  other  in  the  conflict  strove; 

c*  No  Indian  spirits  battled  on  our  side, 

"  To  curb  the  bold  invader's  towering  pride, 

w  Or  bolster  up  the  tottering  cause  of  right, 

a  Man,  man  alone,  decided  that  last  fight, 

?  While  earth,  and  skies  smiPd  at  the  bloody  scene, 

"  And  Nature  pitiless,  look'd  on  serene. 

*  Then  why  should  I  to  these  direct  my  pray'r, 
"  They  never  listen,  or  they  never  care? 

*  Great  Spirit!  ev'n  in  this  my  dying  hour, 
"  I  do  defy  thee,  fearless  of  thy  power, 

"  Be  it  thy  want  of  might,  or  lack  of  will, 
"  Or  one  or  both,  I  do  defy  thee  still. 


THE  BACKWOODSMAN.  169 

w  Thou  did'st  deceive  me  in  thy  promis'd  aid, 

"  First  rais'd  our  hopes,  and  then  those  hopes  betray'd, 

"  Sold  us  to  whitemen,  battled  on  their  side, 

"  Else  we  had  not  been  beat,  nor  had  I  died. 

"  If  thou  hadst  power,  why  then  refuse  thine  aid, 

"  If  not,  then  have  thy  vot'ries  idly  pray'd; 

"  Thou  art  a  cheat  that  in  the  heav'ns  dost  dwell, 

«  Take  my  defiance,  and  so  fare  thee  well. 

"  Yet  if  there  be  among  ye  one  that  cares 
"  For  Indian  wrongs,  to  thee  I  lift  my  prayers. 
n  Alas! — 'tis  now  too  late  for  me  to  pray 
"  For  victory  on  some  propitious  day, 
"  The  time  is  past,  our  rights  and  lands  to  save, 
"  Nor  canst  thou  wake  the  tenants  of  the  grave. 
"  Yet  oh!  if  e'er  their  groans  have  reach'd  thine  eaiv 
"  Hear  my  last  adjuration — Spirit,  hear! 
"  Let  slip  a  race  of  powerful  demons  forth 
"  From  the  deep  bosom  of  the  blasted  earth, 
"  To  wage  eternal  vengeance  in  our  name, 
u  To  wrap  the  world,  in  one  wide  wasting  flame, 
"  Sweep  from  their  lands  usurp'd  the  whiteman's  race, 
"  And  plant  still  bloodier  monsters  in  their  place. 


170  THE  BACKWOODSMAN. 

"  But  if  within  the  bounds  of  Earth  or  Hell, 
"  No  bloodier  fiends  than  they  are  found  to  dwell, 
"  Bring  thou  one  half  of  that  detested  race 
"  Against  the  other,  marshall'd  face  to  face, 
"  There  let  them  murder,  till  of  all  the  train, 
"  But  one  gash'd  wretch  alone  like  me  remain, 
"  The  venom'd  spleen  of  all  his  race  to  nurse, 
"  And  breathe  it  forth,  in  one  last  dying  curse.5-9 

Down  on  the  bleeding  wretch  he  sunk  again, 
Who  groan'd,  as  if  with  agonizing  pain; 
u  Silence!  thou  woman"— scornfully  he  cried, 
"  Art  thou  the  first  hast  suffered,  bled,  or  died? 
"  Pale  whiteman-— for  I  know  thee  by  thy  groans, 
"  If  thou  want'st  pity,  go  and  ask  yon  stones; 
"  Or  tell  me  over  slowly,  one  by  one, 
"  The  favours  ye  to  our  wild  race  have  done~ 
"  Tell  how  ye  sought  our  haunts  with  pious  care, 
"  Show'd  us  thy  way  to  heav'n,  and  pack'd  us  there, 
"  And  when  ye  found  us  roving  in  the  wood, 
"  Baptiz'd  us  Christians  in  our  smoking  blood. 
"  But" — and  the  dying  energy  that  still 
Obey'd  the  impulse  of  his  master  will, 


THE  BACKWOODSMAN.  171 

New  strung  his  arm — "  One  pleasure  yet  remains, 
"  There's  yet  some  blood  left  in  thy  Christian  veins, 
"  There's  yet  one  nerve  within  thy  treacherous  heart, 
"  Where  I  may  wake  one  keen  and  mortal  smart; 
"  Come  let  me  practise  knowledge  dearly  bought, 
"  And  christen  thee,  as  I  by  thee  was  taught. 
"  Whoe'er  thou  art,  I  neither  care,  or  know, 
"  Thou  art  a  whiteman,  and  of  course  my  foe." 

Then  as  the  speechless  victim  raisM  his  arm, 
To  supplicate,  or  haply  shield  from  harm, 
Deep  in  his  bloodless  heart  he  plung'd  the  knife, 
And  freed  the  last  remains  of  struggling  life — 
Heav'n  still  is  just,  it  was  the  Renegade 
That  suffer'd  by  the  hand  he  had  betray'd! 
Delirious  laughter  rattled  in  his  throat, 
As  thus  the  guilty  caitiff  dead  he  smote, 
And  ere  the  dying  victim  sunk  to  rest, 
The  murd'rer  breath'd  his  last  upon  his  breast. 

At  early  dawn  return'd  the  pious  train, 
To  do  the  last  rites  to  their  brothers  slain; 
Sad  task — amid  the  melancholy  wild, 
Where  no  funereal  pomps  their  griefs  beguil'd! 


17£  THE  BACKWOODSMAN. 

No  muffled  drum,  with  pauses  sad  and  slow, 

No  melting  dirge  breath'd  forth  in  cadence  low, 

Nor  vollied  thunder,  from  their  sleep  profound 

Wak'd  the  dead  echoes  of  the  forest  round; 

With  bayonets  they  dug  the  warrior's  grave, 

And  cut  the  sod  with  sword  of  warriors  brave; 

The  pagan  Indian,  and  his  christian  foe, 

Slayer  and  slain,  slept  peaceably  below; 

And  arms,  that  erst  in  bloody  tug  had  join'd, 

In  loving  fellowship  now  lay  entwin'd— 

The  great  peace  maker,  Death,  makes  all  men  friends* 

The  league  he  signs  and  sanctions  never  ends! 

No  groans  were  utter'd,  no  ear  piercing  cries, 

Nor  silent  tear,  their  manly  grief  supplies, 

As  bending  o'er  the  last  home  of  the  dead, 

One  lifeless  sadness  o'er  each  bosom  spread, 

To  think  what  pity  that  the  honest  brave, 

Should  sleep  neglected  in  that  lonely  grave, 

Without  a  stone  to  mark  the  sacred  spot, 

Their  names,  their  heroism,  and  fate  forgot. 

And  now  the  task  of  love  and  vengeance  o'er, 
The  frontier  free,  the  ruthless  foe  no  more, 


THE  BACKWOODSMAN. 

Their  eager  steps  right  winsomely  they  plied, 

Tow'rd  their  dear  home  on  fair  Ohio's  side, 

Nor  need  I  tell  the  welcome  they  receiv'd, 

What  hearts  rejoic'd,  or  what  poor  matrons  griev'd, 

What  eyes  look'd  bright  with  joy,  or  sorrow's  tears, 

Who  groans  in  sorrow,  or  in  triumph  cheers, 

Who  runs  to  meet  the  pilgrims  on  their  way, 

Or  who  in  speechless  sorrow  shrinks  away, 

As  with  Affection's  quick  and  piercing  gaze, 

The  little  band  advancing  she  surveys, 

And  misses  one — the  dearest  of  the  train, 

Her  faithful  breast  will  pillow  ne'er  again, 

Yet  dares  not  ask,  while  they  the  tale  withhold, 

For  fear  her  heart  the  dreadful  truth  has  told. 

Peace  to  her  bosom — peace  and  hope  to  all, 

On  whom  the  caa»t?niiig  hand  of  Heaven  shall  fall! 

And  now  farewell,  ye  happy  village  train, 
The  tale  is  done — we  never  meet  again; 
Yet  let  me  waste  one  line  to  sing  the  lot 
Of  one  whom  I  in  truth  had  half  forgot. 
Old  Basil — for  his  head  is  now  grown  gray- 
Waxes  in  wealth  and  honours  every  day; 

q2 


174  THE  BACKWOODSMAN. 

Judge,  general,  congressman,  and  half  a  score 
Of  goodly  offices,  and  titles  more 
Reward  his  worth,  while  like  a  prince  he  lives, 
And  what  he  gains  from  heav'n  to  mortals  gives; 
His  very  foes  are  welcome  to  his  door, 
For  when  they  come  they  are  his  foes  no  more. 
And  thus,  as  gently  sliding  toward  his  end, 
The  friend  of  all,  and  every  good  man's  friend. 
Still  loving  life,  amid  the  joys  of  health, 
Still  giving,  yet  still  growing  in  his  wealth; 
Surrounded  by  his  neighbours,  dame  and  boys, 
The  old  man  all  the  sweets  of  life  enjoys, 
Wealth,  honour,  freedom,  and  his  neighbours9  love, 
Fruition  here,  and  Hope  in  Heav'n  above. 

Again  Peace  shower'd  her  blessings  o'er  the  laud, 
And  Happiness  and  Freedom,  hand  in  hand 
Went  gayly  round,  and  knoek'd  at  every  door, 
Hailing  the  rich,  and  biding  with  the  poor, 
While  wondering  nations  watch'd  our  bright  career, 
And  look'd,  and  long'd  to  seek  a  refuge  here, 
From  all  the  countless  pack  of  galling  ills, 
That  slaves  still  suffer,  when  the  tyrant  wills. 


THE  BACKWOODSMAN.  175 

And  oh!  be  such  thy  ever  during  fate, 
My  native  land!  still  to  be  good  and  great! 
Still  to  be  dear  to  nations- — doubly  dear, 
The  people's  hope,  the  tyrant's  lasting  fear, 
.Still  to  be  cherish 'd  by  the  good  and  brave, 
Still  to  be  hated  by  the  dastard  slave,, 
That  turns  in  sick'ning  envy  from  thy  face, 
The  mirror  that  reflects  his  deep  disgrace; 
Still  to  be  fear'd  for  thy  far  beck'ning  smiles, 
That  oft  the  despot  of  his  prey  beguiles, 
Still  to  be  lov'd,  by  those  who  joy  to  see 
The  race  of  man  live  happy,  great  and  free. 

Yes!  lone  and  spotless  virgin  of  the  west, 
No  tyrant  pillows  on  thy  swelling  breast, 
Thou  bow'st  before  no  despot's  guilty  throne, 
But  bend'st  the  knee  to  God's,  and  his  alone! 
Dear  imp  of  Freedom — may'st  thou  live  to  see, 
In  after  days  a  glorious  race  like  thee, 
Whom  thy  example  haply  shall  inspire, 
With  the  pure  glow  of  Freedom's  sacred  fire, 
Teach  them  a  sober  way  to  break  their  chains, 
Wipe  from  fair  Freedom's  brow  those  bloody  stains 


176  THE  BACKWOODSMAN. 

That  hair  brain'd  zealots  sprinkled  madly  there, 
And  show  what  heaven  made  it,  pure  as  fair, 
Till  in  good  time  a  train  of  nymphs  like  thee, 
Blooming  and  happy,  virtuous,  wise,  and  free, 
Shall  hail  thee  eldest  sister  of  the  train, 
And  o'er  regenerate  earth,  sweet  cherubs  reign. 


AM© 

A  FABLE. 


NATURE  AND  ART. 


A  FABLE. 


In  days  of  yore  when  mother  Earth, 
Teem'd  with  a  race  of  loftier  birth, 
When  every  spring  a  Nymph  embraced, 
And  every  grove  a  Dryad  grac'd, 
When  every  brook  a  Naiad  trod, 
And  every  river  claim'd  its  God — 
When  Poets,  like  our  modern  kings, 
Made  lofty  persons  out  of  things, 
And  with  a  flourish  of  the  pen, 
Converted  ideas  into  men — 
Nature  and  Art,  once  met  by  chance. 
Guests  at  a  rural  country  dance. 
Yet  how  the  latter  happened  there, 
In  faith  I  neither  know  nor  care. 


184  NATURE  AND  ART. 

But  there  he  was,  a  welcome  guest, 
And  looker-on  among  the  rest. 
The  strangers  fell  to  friendly  chat,* 
As  mortals  do,  of  this  and  that, 
Matters  of  policy  and  state, 
The  little,  and  the  little  great, 
The  fall  of  states,  the  rise  of  kings. 
And  such  like  immaterial  things. 
Or  else  they  talk'd  a  little  scandal, 
For  which  dame  Venus  gave  a  handle, 
Who  as  the  beauty  of  her  sphere, 
Pays  the  same  price  that  belles  do  here. 
Just  like  the  sun,  whose  spots  and  stains 
Are  noted  down  with  learned  pains. 
Or  in  a  whisper  slily  told, 
How  Juno  was  an  arrant  scold, 
And  Jove,  in  spite  of  his  dread  nod, 
A  most  ignoble  henpeck'd  god* 

From  this  they  glanc'd  toward  the  throng 
Of  rosy  maids  that  tript  along, 
In  merry  maze  to  music's  sound, 
And  hardly  seem'd  to  touch  the  ground — 


NATURE  AND  ART.       #  185 

So  merrily  they  play'd  their  parts, 
So  blithesome  was  their  buxom  hearts, 
Ere  yet  the  withering  blight  of  care, 
Had  kilPd  the  rose  that  budded  there, 
Nature  admir'd  a  rural  maid 
That  never  from  her  home  had  stray'd, 
But  bred  midst  books,  in  lonely  bower, 
Had  blossom'd  like  some  modest  flower, 
Unseen,  unknown,  and  unadmir'd, 
Unwooed,  unflatter'd,  undesir'd. 
But  Art,  selected  for  his  belle 
One  who  his  precepts  knew  full  well, 
Who  studied  all  her  witching  smiles, 
And  practised  all  the  city  wiles, 
Whose  every  look  and  action  too, 
Was  such  as  Nature  never  knew. 

This  difference,  as  well  it  might, 

Soon  led  them  to  dispute  outright, 

If  Nature's  bloom  or  polishM  Art, 

Best  claim'd  the  homage  of  the  heart, 

And  as  the  wrathful  pair  contended, 

In  wordy  war  that  ne'er  had  ended, 
r  2 


186  NATURE  AND  ART. 

They  saw  at  distance  in  the  grove 
The  gods  of  Marriage  and  of  Love, 
Just  coming  from  a  rural  wedding, 
And  quick  toward  the  dancers  treading. 
As  they  advanced  the  conscious  grove 
In  whispers  greeted  rosy  Love: 
The  birds  in  softer  numbers  sung, 
The  rocks  with  sweeter  echoes  rung, 
The  flowers  put  forth  their  freshest  bloom, 
The  air  became  one  rich  perfume,  I 
The  brook  that  gurgled  through  the  shade 
A  gentler,  soothing  murmur  made, 
Young  Zephyr,  drunk  with  am'rous  bliss, 
Gave  every  leaf  a^balmy  kiss, 
And  Nature,  like  a  lusty  boy, 
Sprung  up  and  clapt  her  hands  for  joy. 

Love,  like  a  wild  and  wayward  child, 
With  idle  sports  his  way  beguil'd, 
And  oft  would  leave  the  beaten  track, 
Till  sober  Hymen  call'd  him  back. 
Sometimes  a  rolling  hoop  he'd  drive, 
Or  catch  a  butterfly  alive, 


NATURE  AND  ART. 

Or  when  Dan  Hymen's  back  was  turn'd, 

He  snatched  his  torch  that  brightly  burn'd, 

And  to  extinguish  it  essay'd 

In  brook  that  murmur'd  through  the  glade. 

Sometimes  he  bent  his  desp'rate  bow, 

In  wrath  to  lay  some  insect  low, 

And  as  he  twang'd  the  golden  string, 

Would  flap  his  little  purple  wing, 

To  see  the  arrow  cut  its  way* 

And  butterfly  or  beetle  slay. 

Anon,  the  towering  Eagle's  flight 

He  watch'd  with  keen  and  wary  sight, 

And  as  the  lofty  monarch  wound 

In  airy  circles  round  and  round, 

Would  lanch  his  quiv'ring  arrow  forth, 

And  strike  him  headlong  to  the  earth. 

Like  playful  boy  the  urchin  seem'd, 

Yet  in  his  eye  the  Godhead  beam'd. 

Young  Hymen  look'd  of  lofty  race, 
Sober  his  step,  and  mild  his  face; 
No  boiling  passions  eddied  there, 
No  withering  scowl,  or  anxious  care, 


188  NATURE  AND  ART. 

But  in  his  eye,  serene  and  mild, 
Contentment  bask'd,  and  sweetly  smiPd. 
A  fillet  bound  his  auburn  hair, 
That  curPd  about  his  forehead  fair, 
A  purple  robe  around  him  flow'd, 
With  rosy  tint  his  cheek  all  glow'd, 
And  in  his  hand,  of  dazzling  white, 
He  bore  a  torch  celestial  bright. 

To  these,  the  wrangling  pair  referred 
The  question  you  have  just  now  heard, 
And  crav'd  their  Gcydships'  high  opinion, 
Which  o'er  the  heart  best  claimed  dominion: 
She,  who  to  Nature's  precepts  true, 
No  other  guidance  ever  knew, 
Or  she,  who  at  the  shrine  of  Art 
Had  offered  up  her  virgin  heart. 
The  maids  were  calPd  to  stand  the  test, 
Of  their  two  Godships'  high  behest. 

One  tripping  came  with  studied  air, 
With  elbows,  and  et  cetera  bare, 


NATURE  AND  ART.  189 

And  dress  that  told  the  gazer  well, 
What  dress  should  never  dare  to  tell. 
Each  step*  each  action,  every  look 
Was  studied  in,  Art's  secret  book; 
Her  wand'ring,  discontented  eye 
Glanc'd  round  and  round,  in  hope  to  spy 
Among  the  throng  that  gathered  there, 
The  buck's  bold  glance,  the  booby  stare, 
The  silent,  deep  admiring  pause, 
Or  hear  the  buzz  of  sweet  applause 
That  thrills  in  Vanity's  quick  ear 
And  makes  her  brightest  heaven  here. 
Upon  her  cheek  of  painted  snow, 
No  changeful  blush  was  seen  to  glow, 
But  one  unvarying,  dazzling  glare 
From  morn  till  night  abided  there, 
For  no  emotion  of  the  heart 
E'er  ting'd  that  cold  and  senseless  part. 
'Twas  her  delight  to  lure  the  youth, 
And  make  him  break  his  plighted  truth, 
Then  leave  the  baffled  fool  to  prove 
The  pangs  of  conscience  and  of  love-"— 


190  NATURE  AND  ART. 

To  mourn  the  ill-starr'd  luckless  hour 
He  felt  the  cold  seducer's  power, 
And  bound  in  Art's  most  vulgar  spell, 
Broke  the  true  heart  that  lov'd  him  well 
To  the  bright  pair  she  "  louted  low," 
Betwixt  a  curtsy  and  a  bow, 
And  looking  round  with  studied  smile, 
Essay'd  some  coxcomb  to  beguile. 

Young  Hymen  eyed  the  nymph  askance, 
And  Cupid  cast  a  careless  glance, 
But  not  a  single  smile  was  there, 
To  greet  the  cold,  conceited  fair, 
Who  sat  her  down  as  legends  tell  us, 
And  mutter'd,  "two  such  vulgar  fellows!''' 

Next  Nature,  her  pure  taste  to  prove, 
Beckon'd  her  pupil  from  the  grove, 
Where  modestly  she  sat  retir'd 
Afraid  to  come  and  be  admir'd. 
With  downcast  eyes  the  virgin  came, 
While  soft  emotions  shook  her  frame, 


NATURE  AND  ART. 

And  modesty,  and  maiden  pride, 

Struggled  the  mantling  cheek  to  hide, 

That  told  the  blood  which  floated  there 

Was  pure,  as  she  was  bright  and  fair. 

White  was  her  robe  that  well  conceaPd, 

What  Art's  keen  vot'ry  had  reveal'd; 

No  bold  unblushing  bosom  there, 
« 

Wooed  the  volupt'ry's  gloting  stare, 
Yet  Fancy  pictured  all  full  well, 
What  caus'd  that  gentle  panting  swell. 
No  beauty  seen,  but  a  fair  face 
That  shone  in  Nature's  blooming  grace- 
Two  hands  as  white  as  driven  snow, 
Two  little  feet  that  peep'd  below, 
Just  serv'd  to  tell,  that  what  was  hid, 
What  was  display'd  by  far  outdid. 
Was  nothing  here,  to  lure  the  eye 
Of  idle  coxcomb  lounging  by; 
No  half  side  glance,  or  dauntless  stare, 
Or  well  conn'd  attitude  was  there, 
No  charm  obtrusively  display'd, 
Or  careless  as  by  chance  betray'd. 


192  NATURE  AND  ART. 

She  came  like  sweet  and  balmy  eve, 
When  sunbeams  all  the  landscape  leave — 
And  soft'ning  shades  and  purple  hues, 
A  sweet  and  mellow  charm  diffuse, 
That  blends  in  one  harmonious  whole — 
A  scene  that  melts  the  gazer's  soul. 
For  so  it  was,  the  careless  eye 

■ 

Oft  pass'd  this  gentle  maiden  by, 

But  those  who  watch'd  her  winning  way, 

If  they  had  souls,  soon  felt  her  sway. 

And  in  the  end  it  ever  prov'd, 

The  more  they  look'd  the  more  they  lov'd. 

So  she  approach'd  th'  admiring  pair, 

With  downcast  look  and  modest  air, 

Knelt  at  young  Love  and  Hymen's  feet> 

Then  sought  a  low  and  lonely  seat. 

Now  crav'd  the  disputatious  pair, 
Decision  from  their  worships'  chair. 
Dan  Cupid,  then  with  judge -like  face, 
First  gave  opinion  on  the  case, 
Since  all  reports  and  records  prove, 
That  precedence  is  due  to  Love, 


NATURE  AND  ART. 

In  cases  of  this  special  kind, 
Because  like  Justice,  Love  is  blind; 
That  is  to  say,  is  blind  to  all 
The  faults  that  to  dear  woman  fall. 

"The  maid,  whose  manners  are  retir'd, 
"  Who  patient  waits  to  be  admir'd, 
w  Though  overlooked  perhaps  awhile, 
"  Her  modest  worth,  her  modest  smile, 
"  This  be  her  fate,  or  soon  or  late, 
"  To  gain  a  true,  and  faithful  mate, 
"  Who  when  the  spring  of  life  is  gone, 
"  And  all  its  blooming  product  flown|^ 
"  When  butterflies  have  ta'en  their  flight, 
"  And  moths  flit  to  some  newer  light, 
"  Will  bless  old  Time,  who  left  behind 
"  The  graces  of  a  virtuous  mind, 
"  That  as  the  body's  bloom  decay'd^ 
"  An  ample  retribution  made — 
c<  By  adding  every  passing  hour, 
"  To  that  pure  mind's  resistless  power. 
"  But  she — who  seeks  in  vapid  crowd— 
"  To  gain  all  hearts  by  prating  loud — 


194  NATURE  AND  ART. 

"  And  each  obtrusive  art  assays, 

"  To  catch  the  universal  gaze, 

"  This  be  the  end  of  all  her  art, 

"  Never  to  win,  or  wear  a  heart: 

"  To  worry  on  from  day  to  day, 

"  And  waste  each  charm  of  youth  away; 

"In  search  of  worthless  joys  to  roam 

"  Far  from  her  friends  and  native  home, 

"  To  catch  the  coxcomb's  idle  gaze— • 

"  Who  flutters  round  her  heatless  blaze — 1 

"  But  never  feels  one  wish  to  prove 

f  With  her  the  joys  of  virtuous  lov.e; 

"  To  starve  her  heart,  to  feed  her  pride, 

"And  make  herself  so  often  spied, 

"  That  like  the  sun  we  see  all  day, 

"  She  shines  unheeded  on  our  way, 

"  Or  palls  us  with  such  glaring  light, 

"  We  languish  for  the  shades  of  night; 

"  This  be  the  diff 'rence  in  the  two, 

"  One  wooes  all  men — one  all  men  woo." 

Hymen  vouchsafed  the  boy  a  nod — 
As  he  approved  the  rosy  god — 


NATURE  AND  ART.  195 

And  with  severe  and  manly  grace, 
His  verdict  gave  in  this  clear  case; 

"  Men  gaze  on  Beauty  for  a  while, 
u  Allur'cl  by  artificial  smile, 
"  But  Love  shall  never  twang  his  dart 
"  From  any  string  that's  form'd  by  Art. 
*e  'Tis  Nature  moulds  the  touching  face, 
"  'Tis  she  that  gives  the  living  grace, 
"  The  genuine  charm  that  never  dies, 
"  The  modest  air,  the  timid  eyes, 
"  The  stealing  glance,  that  wins  its  way 
"  To  where  the  soul's  affections  lay; 
"'Tis  Nature,  and  'tis  she  alone 
"  That  gives  the  bright  celestial  zone, 
"  Which  virgin  Venus  blushing  wore, 
"  When  first  she  touch'd  gay  Cyprus'  shore; 
"  And  ere  she  sought  her  destin'd  skies 

Charm'd  every  wondering  gazer's  eyes — 
"  The  zone  of  modesty,  the  charm 
u  That  coldest  hearts  can  quick  disarm, 
"  Which  all  our  best  affections  gains, 
w  And  gaining,  ever  still  retains." 


196  NATURE  AND  ART. 

Then  beckon'd  he  the  blushing  maid, 
Who  modestly  at  distance  staid, 
And  reaching  forth  his  snowy  hand, 
Addressed  her  thus  in  accents  bland: 
"  Be  thine  the  blissful  lot  to  know 
"  A  partner  both  in  weal  and  wo; 
"  One  who  when  friends  shall  fall  around 
"  Like  dry  leaves  on  the  barren  ground, 
"  When  father,  mother,  all  are  dead — 
"  And  every  youthful  friend  is  fled, 
"  Will  well  supply  their  tenderness, 
"  With  every  act  of  kindness  bless, 
"  Be  unto  thee,  when  they  are  gone, 
a  Parent,  friend,  lover,  all  in  one, 
"And  when  he  looks  on  thee,  sweet  maid, 
"  Think  all  his  cares  are  richly  paid. 
"  But  thou,"  and  with  a  withering  look, 
His  torch  he  at  the  other  shook, 
Then  quench'd  it  in  the  babbling  brook — 
e<  Be  thine,  to  live,  and  never  know 
"  Sweet  Sympathy  in  joy  or  wo, 
"  To  see  Time  rob  thee,  one  by  one, 
"  Of  every  charm  thou  e'er  hast  known, 


NATURE  AND  ART.  197 

"  To  see  the  moth  that  round  thee  came, 

"  Flit  to  some  newer,  brighter  flame, 

"  And  never  know  thy  destin'd  fate, 

M  Till  to  retrieve  it  is  too  late; 

"  Be  thine  to  miss  each  well  known  face, 

"  And  charm  no  new  ones  in  their  place; 

"  To  see  thy  friends  from  life  all  hurl'd* 

"  And  feel  a  desert  in  this  world; 

"  To  die,  nor  leave  one  soul  to  weep, 

M  And  in  the  grave  forgotten  sleep, 

w  Thy  spirit  doom'd  to  wander  forth, 

u  Curs'd  with  the  passions  of  this  earth, 

"  A  viewless  spectre  every  where, 

"  To  witness  joys  thou  canst  not  share, 

"  The  bride's  long  nights  of  virtuous  bliss, 

"  The  lover's,  and  the  mother's  kiss, 

"  And  thus  eternal  years  to  pine 

"  For  transports  that  shall  ne'er  be  thine." 

This  said,  pleas'd  Nature  sought  the  shade, 
And  thither  led  the  blushing  maid; 
Art  to  the  city  bent  his  way, 
To  try  his  luck  some  other  day; 


198  NATURE  AND  ART, 

Hymen  to  bind  the  wounds  of  love, 
And  Cupid,  to  the  realms  above. 


THE  END* 


J- 


Mi 


